


When Life Gives You Something Nice for a Change, It Can Be Surprisingly Difficult to Hold On To It

by Apathy, saltedpin



Series: No One Looks At Series Titles So Call Them Whatever You Like [3]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Comedy, Denial, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, heed the other past relationships tag!, look at all this emotional constipation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/pseuds/Apathy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedpin/pseuds/saltedpin
Summary: Hijikata bites back a snitty response and slowly counts to ten in his head. He hadn’t expected things to go smoothly – since when has anything involving that idiot even come close to being easy?Trouble in paradise.
Relationships: Hijikata Toshirou/Sakata Gintoki, other past relationships
Series: No One Looks At Series Titles So Call Them Whatever You Like [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389094
Comments: 150
Kudos: 263





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks as always to rabbit_habits for the beta! <3
> 
> This story can most likely stand alone, but it does refer back to one or two things from its prequel fics, which can be found here!:
> 
> [When Life Gives You Lemons Make Sure to Save Them to Your Hard Drive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17640257/chapters/41596253)
> 
> [When Life Gives You a Sequel with a Higher Rating Make Sure You Don’t Screw It Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19186567/chapters/45608467) (warning: rated E)

“Don’t say I never do anything for you, tax thief.”

Hijikata examines the contents of the fruit basket that Yorozuya has just plonked in his lap as he sits in his hospital bed. Or, more specifically, the _content,_ i.e. one grape hanging forlornly from its otherwise barren stem. He’s not even going to consider the apple cores, orange peels, and various other garbage that lies scattered throughout the desolate wasteland of the basket.

He picks up the grape stem and holds it in front of his face, eyeing it critically. Through the spaces where – in a kinder world – the grapes would be, he can see Gintoki very carefully avoiding his gaze, what _should_ at the very least be the appearance of sheepishness almost entirely smothered beneath a thick layer of self-righteous bluster. Hijikata can practically _feel_ the indignation radiating off him.

“… Thanks, Yorozuya. You shouldn’t have.”

“Hey!” Gintoki is on his feet faster than the lazy fuck would normally have Hijikata believe possible. “It’s not my fault that Kagura got to them first! She’s a growing girl, and I’m not made of money. And in any case, it’s the thought that counts, you greedy bastard!”

Gintoki’s face is rapidly passing through ever-darkening shades of pink, and it’s pretty funny. Hijikata can’t even be angry at him; after all, this is actually more than he expected. Sure, some mayo would be nice, and the six-pack of cigarettes that Yamazaki brought him last night is going to run out sometime in the next few hours, but still, a grape is better than nothing. And that China girl’s appetite _is_ kind of terrifying. He’s pretty sure that Gintoki would have to resort to less-than-legal means in order to keep her fed even if he were pulling in a nine-figure sum every year; he doesn’t even want to think about what kind of illicit acts he’s resorting to on his current average weekly income of a few thousand yen and a green tea Kit Kat.

“Oi, oi. Sit down, asshole. I’ll eat your stupid grape.” He pops it into his mouth as Gintoki flops back down dramatically onto the hospital bed, barely managing not to crush Hijikata’s legs in the process. The idiot leans back insouciantly on one elbow, putting his slippered feet up on the blanket. 

“So. Who’s the lucky man who broke your butthole?”

Hijikata chokes as his singular grape almost goes down the wrong tube. He thumps himself on the chest a few times, more to buy time to formulate a response than for actual life-saving purposes… though, in the end, the time he bought isn’t worth shit. “My what? What the hell are you talking about?”

Gintoki examines his fingernails with a studied indifference that Hijikata knows is anything but. He’s encountered it way too many times, and it never, ever bodes well. The more Yorozuya pretends not to care about something, the more fucked Hijikata is.

“Your Okita-kun’s been putting these up all over town. Seems like congratulations are in order.”

Gintoki pulls a crumpled piece of bright yellow paper out of his yukata, and Hijikata leans forward and snatches it from him before that oh-too-familiar internal voice that says _leave it, you don’t want to know, trust me_ can pipe up.

He unfolds the paper, smoothing it out – it’s A3, the most fucking ominous of all the sizes – and spreads it out over his lap with fingers that tremble slightly from what is presumably mayonnaise withdrawal.

_**HIJIKATA TOUSHIROU HAS BEEN PLACED ON IMMEDIATE LEAVE DUE TO A DEBILITATING BUTTHOLE INJURY** _

_**OKITA SOUGO IS ACTING VICE CHIEF OF THE SHINSENGUMI NOW AND IN PERPETUITY** _

_**IT’S A REALLY BAD INJURY** _

_**(SEE DIAGRAM)** _

Hijikata internally curses the fact that Sougo has apparently spent the past few months learning how to use Photoshop properly – a passerby might at a glance actually think that it’s Hijikata’s face and Hijikata’s body and Hijikata’s butt, and he hammers frantically at the button next to the bed, hoping for the blissful release of a morphine overdose.

“Once you’re done turning the TV on and off, you might want to work out what you want to do about this.”

He’d almost forgotten about Gintoki’s remarkably calm presence – though he’s not sure how, given that the bastard is managing to take up more of the bed than Hijikata himself – and oh shit, does this mean he thinks – does he actually _believe_ this blatant libel –

“This isn’t true!” Hijikata blurts out, holding up the piece of paper and maybe thrusting it in Gintoki’s face just a little. “This isn’t why I’m here!” 

Gintoki raises an eyebrow. “You think I don’t know that? Pretty sure I’d remember doing that, and you’re embarrassed enough about having sex with _me_ – I can’t imagine a situation where you’d unclench for long enough to do it with someone else. So I’m assuming your butthole isn’t the actual issue here.”

Strategic deafness is a skill that Hijikata’s had to develop over these past two months. Especially when it’s clear that Gintoki is trying to get a rise out of him, and it will actually drive him even further up the wall if Hijikata ignores him. He puts his new skillset to good use now as he stares in fury at Sougo’s disgusting arts and crafts project, while Gintoki fidgets on the bed next to him.

“I _said,_ I can’t imagine a situation where you –”

“All right, all right. I heard you the fucking first time. And no, my butthole isn’t the actual issue here, thanks for your concern.”

Hijikata leans over with as much nonchalance as he possibly can, reaching for his cigarettes on the bedside table. It’s a slight surprise when he finds Gintoki’s hand there first, picking up the packet and holding it out to his side, out of Hijikata’s reach. 

“Yorozuya, you stupid bastard –”

“Now, now.” Gintoki is utterly unperturbed as Hijikata makes a grab for the packet, dangling it delicately between his thumb and forefinger through the open window next to the bed. “I’m only thinking of your health, Vice Commander, as well as the wellbeing of the other patients at this outstanding public facility. Do you have permission to smoke in this hospital bed? Is it the system at work again, affording corrupt officials privileges the likes of which the rest of us can only dream?”

“Drop those out of that window, and I’ll drop _you_ out of it next,” Hijikata snarls at him, making another lunge for his smokes. It’s not like the end result is undignified, per se; it’s certainly not like he ends up half-dangling out of the bed and gasping in pain or anything stupid like that. He manages to haul himself back upright with a minimum of sweating and swearing, and it’s okay, he’s fine, the cigarettes are fine – still dangling perilously from Yorozuya’s grimy fingers but otherwise safe – and he fixes Gintoki with one of his pissier glares. Bastard hadn’t even offered to help him up! Not that he’d wanted it, and he would’ve punched the asshole if he’d tried, but the two of them are a _thing_ now, and isn’t that what people who are a _thing_ do?

No, he’s just threatening Hijikata’s cigarettes with grievous bodily harm, the box swaying gently back and forth in the warm afternoon breeze. As Hijikata watches, Gintoki plucks a cigarette from the pack; he lazily twirls it between his fingers for a moment, before flicking it out into the great beyond.

“Hey! You bastard – what the hell –”

Gintoki turns to face him, and his expression, if Hijikata’s being entirely honest with himself, makes his balls shrink back into his body just a bit. Normally Gintoki’s claims of sadism are all talk, but sometimes, just sometimes, he rises to the occasion. And the smile on his face right now is definitely one that Hijikata has learned to be wary of, to put it mildly.

“Consider that a taste of what’s to come, Hijikata-kun.” Another cigarette plummets to its untimely doom, and Hijikata yelps, his hand grabbing fruitlessly for it before he can even stop to think about how pointless it is.

“Whaddya mean, ‘what’s to come’? At least tell me what the hell it is you want, asshole!”

Gintoki blinks in what looks to be genuine confusion, even as he sends yet another cigarette to meet its maker. “What do you mean, what do I want? I want you to tell me how you ended up in hospital, you jackass!”

That’s it? That’s all he wants to know? That’s why three – make that four – innocent cigarettes are now no longer of this earth?

And yet….

Hijikata can feel the burn creeping up his face, even as he wills it to subside. There are some things you just don’t say. Hell, there are things you just don’t _think_ – he’s gotten pretty damn good at repressing things over the years, to the point where he can barely even recall why he ended up in hospital, beyond the fact that it was stupid and shitty and he does _not_ want to think about it ever again. On the embarrassment scale of zero to debilitating butthole injury, it’s closer to the upper end than the lower, and that’s all he needs to know. 

“My leg is broken.”

Not technically a lie – it _is_ broken, and Gintoki doesn’t need to know more than that. Lies of omission are just truth by a different name.

Yorozuya tosses a cigarette. Hijikata tries again.

“My work can get… pretty dangerous at times.”

There. That sounded almost convincing. All dark and mysterious – people love that shit. Yorozuya’s stupid enough to fall for that, right?

From Gintoki’s expression, it’s clear that there are some things that are too stupid even for him; however, for whatever unfathomable reason, he seems content to give Hijikata a pass on this occasion. His demeanour lightens until it’s downright sunny; he shrugs indifferently, and this time the whole damn pack of cigarettes tumbles from his hands.

“Oh.” Gintoki peers out the window after it, and winces. “That wasn’t actually deliberate, you know. Sorry?”

Hijikata rubs tiredly at his eyes. He can’t be surprised that it turned out this way. “Whatever.”

“No, really. I’ll bring you up a new pack in a bit.”

“You’ll pick up my cigarettes off the footpath, you mean. Unless someone else gets to them first.”

Gintoki simpers at him, batting his eyelashes. It’s disgusting. “We’ve only been together two months, and it’s like we can read each other’s minds.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

 _That_ showed the jerkass punk. Hijikata would kick him, but his leg really _is_ fucked.

“You sweet-talker, Hijikata-kun. Don’t let the nurses hear you – they’ll be jealous and won’t empty your bedpan.” 

With a supreme effort of will, Hijikata closes his eyes and _does not_ rise to the bait. Whether or not it’s effective is debateable, however, since he still has to clench his teeth and knot his fists in the bedsheets in the struggle not to tell Yorozuya to go fuck himself or something equally as witty and devastating that would shut Yorozuya up for good. 

“Anyway.” Gintoki paces back and forth in front of the window, gesticulating exaggeratedly, just _rubbing it in_ that he can wander about looking like as much of a dickhead as he likes while Hijikata is trapped within the narrow, lumpy confines of his bed. “You can’t just go off gallivanting about willy-nilly anymore. You’re the breadwinner here, and what would people say if you couldn’t keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed because you’ve gone off and broken your butt? Today it’s your ass, but tomorrow it could be something actually important.”

“Like my wallet?”

“Yeah, like your wa— hey, you said that! That was you! _I_ was going to say your heart, or your face, or your, I dunno, kidney or something. Or your pancreas. I might need your organs someday, since Shinpachi seems to have some insane idea that he’s saving his for his sister – not that yours are worth having, with the amount of those shitty things you smoke.” Gintoki perches on the edge of the bed and puts his hand on Hijikata’s arm, leaning forward with what is probably supposed to be great sincerity in his eyes. Hijikata tries to shake him off, but his grip tightens.

“What I’m saying is, if you’re not careful you’re going to meet a sticky end, and not in a good way.”

Hijikata opens his mouth to ask just what the hell a good sticky end might entail, but he can already see Gintoki’s eyebrows beginning to waggle and shuts it again. 

Is this guy capable of having a conversation without trying to induce a constant state of emotional whiplash? Is Hijikata supposed to feel touched right now? Aroused? Disgusted? He could probably manage that last one without too much trouble, but the rest of it is just not going to happen. 

He’d thought, on that first night, that maybe Gintoki would open up to him a little. Be a bit more honest. Not that Hijikata himself is one to get all mushy about his _feelings_ – the closest he normally gets to that kind of thing is when he and Kondou share one too many drinks. And even then, he’s always got one foot on the emotional brake pedal. Or in its general vicinity, anyway.

But his first night with Gintoki, for the most part, was comprised of the fight-fuck-sleep trifecta, and any hint of – ugh – _vulnerability_ on Gintoki’s part had disappeared around about ten o’clock the next morning, when Gintoki had been so affronted at Hijikata’s refusal to go and buy him breakfast that he’d dumped his entire dirty laundry basket on Hijikata’s head. The smell had lingered for days, and while the action _had_ been emotionally honest on Gintoki’s part, it wasn’t really the kind of honesty that Hijikata had been hoping for, even as he’d been simultaneously dreading it.

Nope. What they’ve got going now is pretty great – for certain definitions of ‘great’ that involve lots of exasperation and thrown punches and attempts at keeping quiet in places they probably shouldn’t be fucking – but it’s… well, it’s what they had before, except with sex. Which is what he’d thought he’d wanted. And he does! He just also wants to occasionally know what the hell Gintoki is thinking. Is that so much to ask? Does it make him needy?

He doesn’t need to know every thought that passes through Gintoki’s stupid permed head. He already gets that from Kondou, and it’s exhausting. Just… some of them. Twenty per cent, maybe. The twenty per cent that aren’t to do with trying to scab as much money off Hijikata as possible.

Like right now, for instance. Is Gintoki actually concerned for his wellbeing, or is he just curious about how Hijikata broke his leg and putting on an act in order to wheedle the information out of him, while also being kind of gross as his own sort of side benefit? Hijikata would like to think that he’s concerned, even as he knows he’d rankle at it.

Beyond that… who the fuck knows what’s up with Gintoki. Hijikata knows that he was the Shiroyasha, obviously – although even that had taken an embarrassingly long time for him to figure out – and that he had this whole other life before their paths even came close to crossing. Hijikata understands being reticent to share that kind of thing, and not just because of the mortifying photographs from your teenaged years… but Gintoki just takes this mysterious shit to a whole new level. Which is pretty impressive, given how much he loves to mouth off about himself; Gintoki’s ability to say a whole lot of garbage while actually saying nothing at all is calculated in a way that Hijikata has to grudgingly give him credit for.

And there are some things that eat away at Hijikata’s mind more than others. Things that he’s not proud to admit.

Like sex.

Because Gintoki is obviously more… _experienced_ than him, but just how experienced is likely going to remain a mystery for the ages, since Hijikata isn’t about to ask him about it and open himself up to the barrage of mockery that would inevitably result – _“Feeling insecure are we, Hijikata-kun? Don’t worry, I’ll do my best not to make you feel inadequate.”_

But seriously, who the hell did Gintoki learn to do – to do – _all that_ from?! There’s no way in hell that he’s just that talented naturally. No _way_. Gintoki doesn’t even like to admit that he’s good at this stuff – that he’s far better than Hijikata himself – but he is. The competitive part of Hijikata – the part of him that isn’t consumed with mayonnaise and smokes – is determined to get better at sex than Gintoki, but in order to get better at sex, he has to _have_ more sex, presumably with Gintoki, and that’ll mean that _Gintoki_ will get even better at sex, and Hijikata really can’t see a way out of this.

More to the point, though, is that surely Gintoki didn’t get good just by jerking it to shitty cheap porn, or higher-quality stolen porn. So, who did he fuck?! Gintoki knows all of Hijikata’s stupid sex secrets, i.e., that he’d never gotten any of the non-paid variety until he hooked up with a fucking idiotic perm-headed samurai who was carting around enough glucose in his veins to open a frigging candy store.

Why doesn’t Hijikata know any of Gintoki’s stupid sex secrets, dammit? Or any of his stupid secrets in general? Because unless he can get a handle on this, all Hijikata can see in his future is yet more mortifying instances of driving around at three a.m. desperately trying to find somewhere that would steam clean a patrol car’s upholstery after Gintoki _swore_ he would swallow. 

“Hello? Earth to Hijikata-kun?”

Hijikata is dragged out of the pit of that dark memory by the sound of Gintoki’s voice and looks over to see him gazing at him with something approaching complete indifference, the pinky finger of one hand shoved up his nose while the other idly twirls his empty grape stem. 

“Feel like telling me what happened or not?”

“It’s none of your business,” Hijikata shoots back at him – because really, it isn’t. What Hijikata does on his own time, what injuries he acquires and how he acquires them is no one’s business but his. “I don’t even know why you’re here – to give me this?” He snatches the grape stem out of Gintoki’s fingers. “Thanks. I’m touched. Maybe next week you could see your way clear to bringing me a half-deflated balloon and a bunch of flowers you pulled out of the trash.”

Gintoki doesn’t even bother to stop picking his nose as he gets up off the bed, yawning and stretching. “Fine, fine. Gin-san can tell when his caring bedside manner isn’t wanted. Anyway, I did have one other present for you, but if you don’t want it, then that’s fine.”

Hijikata _knows_ when he’s being baited – all the signs are there, like Yorozuya’s mouth being open and words coming out of it. But apparently he’s simply incapable of learning. 

“What present?”

Hijikata can’t say he’s _pleased,_ exactly, to see the slightly smug look that crosses Yorozuya’s face, but at least it’s something other than cold indifference. It’s not that he cares about how Yorozuya looks at him or anything like that, and not that ‘smug’ is really an improvement, but at least it’s _something_. 

“It’s nothing, really. Just something to pass the time.”

The tone of Gintoki’s voice is _not_ encouraging, but Hijikata doesn’t have enough patience to think about all the ways in which this will backfire spectacularly on him.

He holds out his hand. “Okay, you win. You’ve made me curious. Hand over whatever the hell it is, so we can get this over with.”

He tries not to grit his teeth too obviously at the triumphant grin that spreads across Gintoki’s face as he whips a – magazine? – out of his yukata with a flourish and slaps it into Hijikata’s hand.

“This is a….” Hijikata can feel sweat trickling down his temple, but that’s okay – his face is suddenly burning hot enough to evaporate it into non-existence, leaving behind nothing but a salty residue. “This is….”

“A porn mag!” Yorozuya yells cheerfully, and Hijikata winces as the sound bounces off the walls. “Come on, Hijikata-kun – even _you_ know what one of these is. I’m sure you’ve confiscated them off your men enough times.”

“I – yes, but….”

_Not like this!_

His men tend to collect magazines of scantily clad women with pouty lips and hyper-inflated breasts, posing with sultry come-hither looks. This… _this_ is just a very well-worn collection of pictures of men fucking. In a variety of positions. With a variety of… accessories.

He flicks through the pages despite himself, but each picture is more inappropriate than the last. It’s completely outrageous.

He is suddenly very aware of just how thin the hospital blanket is.

“Yeah, so here’s a pen.” Yorozuya unceremoniously tosses a black marker into Hijikata’s lap as he begins heading towards the door. “Since you’ve got some free time right now, just mark the ones you’d be up for with an ‘x’ and I’ll see you once your butt gets better.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my butt!” Hijikata bellows at the rapidly closing door to his room – for a moment he contemplates hurling the magazine at it, but in an incredible feat of self-control he manages to restrain himself, if only because the only possible result of that is having to ask whoever enters the room next to pick it up for him since he can’t do it himself, which will just be more humiliation for him and absolutely no consequence whatsoever for Yorozuya.

He exhales loudly, pushing his lank hair out of his eyes and scratching at his itchy scalp with perhaps more vigour than is absolutely necessary.

Hijikata has enough self-awareness to realise that at least half of his anger is directed at himself – no one _made_ him get into this… whatever it is with the kind of person who’d saunter in, give him a grape and a filthy stick mag, and then saunter out again without even telling him he hopes he feels better from the injury he actually has, as opposed to the one that exists entirely in Sougo’s sadism-fuelled fantasy world. He knew going into this that Gintoki was an asshole, so really, this is all on him.

Hell, all things considered, it’s probably going better than he could’ve hoped. The fact that Gintoki at least made an attempt to visit him is a good sign, right?

Hijikata looks down at the magazine, which lies open to a random page of particular depravity. His gaze is drawn to the picture as if he has no control now even over his own eyeballs, and he realises that he’s uncapped the marker without realising, the tip of it hovering over the page.

He recaps the marker with all haste and flings it into the corner of the room – or out the window, as it turns out. Even better, then. This way, he won’t be tempted into doing something incredibly stupid.

That godawful magazine is still there, though. He looks at it out of the corner of his eye, squinting so that he’s not _really_ looking at it. One of the men in the picture stares back at him, mouth open wide in what is hopefully pleasure, and – well, he seems to be enjoying himself, despite everything that’s being done to him. Or because of it, Hijikata supposes. It’s hard to tell.

He’s never been into this kind of stuff, okay? Probably he never would’ve been in any case, but a decade or so in close proximity to Sougo has cured him of any possible inclinations towards that kind of thing.

Or so he’d thought, anyway.

Hijikata slams the magazine shut, but the front cover is still – ugh. He turns it over, but now the image on the back cover is reminding him of exactly why Sougo – and half of Edo, probably – thinks he ended up in the hospital in the first place. Flipping the edge of his blanket over to cover it is just making him cold, and like hell he’s going to hide it right under the blanket, next to his bare skin! And he’s not going to try to hide it under the mattress while he’s got a broken leg. There are a lot of stupid things he’s done in his time, but even he has his limits.

In the end, he decides that it’ll have to go into the not-very-private drawer in the bedside cabinet, and he’ll just have to hope that no one goes rummaging around in there.

He brightens a little as he remembers that his last pack of cigarettes is still tucked away safely inside the drawer – just what he needs to bring a little ray of tar-laden sunshine into his day. He pulls open the drawer, and –

_Fucking Yorozuya._

How the hell did that fucker manage to open his drawer without him noticing?! Is he smoking Hijikata’s last cigarette right now?!

Maybe this is Gintoki’s way of encouraging him to get well as quickly as possible, so that he can get out of hospital and back to his regular life. As if he wants to be here! Doesn’t Gintoki know that broken legs take at _least_ four days to heal?! He’ll be lucky if he’s back to normal by the weekend.

He jams the magazine into the drawer and then slams it shut, before shifting back onto his pillows with a sigh. Nothing to do for the next few days but lie here, heal, and reflect upon his abysmally shitty taste in men.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Hijikata, I am sorry we're doing this to you ;o;

On reflection, Gintoki thinks, this whole thing with Hijikata probably wasn’t one of his better ideas.

Not the idea of hooking up with him in general. Gintoki is a grown man with a grown man’s needs, and those needs include having great sex with uptight, stand-offish assholes who could rate at least a six-point-five out of ten on their better days.

No, that’s not the problem at all. The problem is that it’s still going. The _problem_ is that he’s doing ridiculous, unaffordable shit, like buying fruit baskets for sexy idiots who go and get their butts broken.

He grits his teeth as he pushes through the crowded streets of Kabukichou, distantly grateful that no one is paying him too much mind, and makes a beeline for home. He is really not in the mood to be dealing with anyone or anything right now – not when he’s having something that feels weirdly like some kind of existential crisis.

Sure, that first night with Hijikata had been fine. Fine enough that he’d let Hijikata stick around for seconds. And then thirds. And all right, okay, at some point he’d stopped counting. A semi-shitfaced night of fucking, eating, and sleeping, all with someone in possession of a steady paycheque – what more could a horny young stud such as himself ask for? Even the stupid arguments and mild humiliation before they’d actually got down to business had added a certain saucy soupçon of _je ne sais quoi_ to the whole sordid shebang.

But that’s just the point. It was supposed to be two guys having fun, blowing off some steam from the truly ridiculous situation they’d found themselves in. He’d just assumed that as time wore on, they’d get bored of each other or drift apart, and then they’d part as – ugh, not _friends,_ but two guys who really irritated each other and occasionally fucked when it was convenient.

This… does not seem to have happened. He’s pretty sure that ‘sappy hospital visits’ and ‘thoughtful gifts’ and ‘spending at least one third of his income keeping his fridge stocked with truly disgusting amounts of goopy off-white condiment’ is at least two steps beyond anything he’d envisaged. Hell, he’d even attempted to make home-made mayonnaise for their one-month anniversary, and while the ungrateful fuck had gagged on the result of Gin-san’s labours, he had, Gintoki is pretty certain, looked _touched_ at the thoughtfulness of it all in the moments before he spat it all over the floor. Which had at least given him an excuse to throw the bowl of leftovers at Hijikata, which had given Hijikata an excuse to yell that he needed to wash his clothes now, which had, in turn, meant he’d had to take them off – 

Gintoki lets out a grunt of annoyance, running his fingers through his hair. This isn’t what he’d wanted! The worst part is that he hadn’t even been _thinking_ about that kind of thing when he’d lured Hijikata into the kitchen with the promise of making it worth his while. When he’d _said_ ‘home-made mayonnaise’, he’d actually _meant_ home-made mayonnaise! But this is how it always starts, isn’t it? This is how things go wrong, and how you end up adding yet something else to your list of things to lose when things go south, as they inevitably do. The fact that they haven’t already is probably just because Hijikata, the spiteful prick, has deliberately set out to confound his expectations just to get on his fucking tits. 

It isn’t as if he hasn’t tried – Gintoki keeps suggesting inappropriate things to him in the hope Hijikata will realise for himself that some things just aren’t meant to be, but so far it hasn’t worked – probably because Gintoki made the mistake of calling him a prude, and now he seems determined to prove that he isn’t one. Even though he absolutely is. But who knows? Maybe the magazine Gintoki chucked at him this morning will finally be the last straw, and next time he sees him he’ll give him the _we need to talk_ talk. 

He spots the offices of Yorozuya Gin-chan in the distance as he takes the corner, and he hurries his pace. There’s really nothing more he wants right now than to go home and indulge in a little day drinking. He deserves it, dammit! Hauling his arse across town to visit that unappreciative bastard has given him a thirst that cannot be denied.

Shit, all of this is just… ugh. He can’t keep doing this – this whole _thing_. Collecting Otose and Shinpachi and Kagura was bad enough – now he’s got a cigarette-stinking tsundere with a broken leg to contend with. Where will it end? Is he going to wake up to find Taka-tin has moved in with him next?

He pauses on the steps, his hand on the rail. Logically, he _knows_ that Taka-tin, in all probability, is _not_ up there in his house, sprawling on his futon and making liberal use of his toilet. He _knows_ this. Hell, he doesn’t even know if Taka-tin is in Edo anymore.

And yet, what if…?

Gin-san doesn’t need that kind of thing in his life! He doesn’t have room for anyone else. He sure as hell doesn’t have room for Taka-tin, the massive bastard.

He chucks a u-ey and heads back down the stairs, rounding the corner and barging through the door to Otose’s. It makes more sense, anyway. If he’s going to get wasted, then he might as well do it on someone else’s dime. Flopping down at the empty bar, he leans over the counter to grab a glass and hopes that Otose will take it as implied that she’s supposed to fill it up. Not that he can usually expect a shred of human decency from anyone around here – which is why it’s such a shock when he looks up to find that his glass _is_ actually being filled. 

Ah – of course it’s Tama, sweet angel that she is, the bright spot on his otherwise mediocre morning, the pearl in his rotten oyster of a day –

“That will be six hundred yen, Gintoki-sama,” she sweetly intones, holding out her palm in expectation of payment. “And last month’s rent.” 

Gintoki groans, letting his head flop forward onto the counter. As per usual, it was all too good to be true. “I don’t have it,” he says, his voice muffled by both despair and the fragrant wood of the bar, steeped as it is with decades’ worth of spilt drinks and the alcoholic drool of passed-out salarymen. “If you want it, you’re going to have to take it in orange peels and grape stems.” _Since in a moment of weakness I spent it all on fruit for that ungrateful tax thief. And then Kagura ate it before it could reach its intended destination._ Gintoki likes to think he’s familiar with the circle of life by this point, but he’d like it a lot more if the circle of life involved a little less of stuff circling through Kagura’s digestive tract.

“Oh, leave him be for the moment, Tama.”

Shockingly, just for once his reprieve comes in the form of Otose’s hoarse, rasping voice – and Gintoki is so grateful that he lifts his head, hand unconsciously reaching inside his yukata for the cigarettes he pilfered from Hijikata’s bedside with no real motive other than annoying him. But that doesn’t mean they can’t still bring a little bit of joy into someone’s day.

“You want them? They’re yours,” Gintoki says, tossing them down on the bar before he can think – only to realise a moment later what a thunderous fool he’s been as Otose reaches out one gnarled hand and picks them up, observes the brand, raises an eyebrow, and then tucks them away inside her kimono before turning to him. 

Silence. Is there a chance she won’t say anything? Gintoki scarcely dares to dream it. 

“So. Mayoboro. I didn’t know you smoked them.”

He briefly considers going with _There’s a lot you don’t know about me, you old hag,_ but for once, his inner good sense rouses itself from its slumber and stops the words before they make it past his lips. But what to say? Anything implying that he’s taken up smoking as an ongoing kind of lifestyle thing will just lead to a lecture from Tama – _You’re in a relationship now, it is a responsibility to remain healthy for your boyfriend,_ ugh – and an all-too-knowing challenge to a smoking competition from Otose. And Gintoki values his ability to breathe, he really does. The last thing he needs is to get stuck in hospital with Hijikata, his pink, fresh protagonist lungs laid low by an ill-advised smoke-off with an old lady who apparently keeps some kind of combustion engine inside her chest. Hijikata would laugh himself sick. _Actually_ sick, not just this mysterious broken leg bullshit.

He’d say nothing at all, but he can feel himself wilting beneath Otose’s gaze.

“They… were a gift?”

It’s not technically a lie. The universe gifted them to Gin-san. They were just sitting there in the drawer, quite possibly left behind by the previous occupant of the hospital room. He was just saving the hard-working staff of O-Edo General from having to take them down to the lost property room. And he wouldn’t have dreamed of disturbing a convalescent patient to ask him if they were his.

Otose taps her finger thoughtfully against her chin. “And you decided to re-gift them to me. How considerate. I’m glad to see that I raised you so well.”

_Shit, shit. Why is she even being like this? She knows full well where I got them from! What does she even get out of this?!_

… Well, the simple joy of watching someone else squirm, he supposes. He knows it all too well. Still!

“It was some kind of pass-it-on thing,” he blusters desperately. She arches an eyebrow, and he bobs his head up and down in a frantic nod, warming to his topic despite the giant stop sign flashing in his mind. “Do a kind deed, and gift it to someone who truly needs it. Like a sweet old lady who’s down on her luck.”

Otose lights up one of her own cigarettes, taking her sweet-arse time; once she’s finally done, she leans her elbows on the counter and slowly, gently, blows smoke in Gintoki’s face. “Do I look like someone in need of free mayonnaise-flavoured cigarettes?”

 _No, you look like someone in need of a restraining order,_ he doesn’t say. Gintoki has been up against all kinds of foes over the course of his life, from aliens to yakuza to idiot cops, and the only one who can truly scare him shitless is the old lady who lives directly beneath his feet, and who probably hears him piss every morning.

“… I’m sorry?” he says humbly, deciding that ‘meek’ is his best option right now. “How can I make it up to you?”

_Please don’t say money. Or work. Or… anything, really._

Otose smiles and leans back a little, lightly drumming her fingers on the counter in what _should_ be a friendly, encouraging motion… but from her, it just rings out the knell of his fucking doom.

“You can make it up to me by telling me about what’s going on between you and that cop of yours.”

Oh. _Oh._

That’s… that’s _much_ worse.

“I have money –” he tries weakly, but she shakes her head, and it’s pointless, he’s screwed.

“You don’t, and I don’t want it anyway. You spent the last of it on that fruit basket.”

Gintoki sputters helplessly. “Why are you asking me questions when you clearly already know everything about my life, you scary old hag?!”

“I’m going to ignore that,” she says, and Gintoki knows that he’s being given a lifeline that he probably doesn’t deserve. He swallows hard and takes a few calming breaths.

“Now.” Otose taps her cigarette into the ashtray, and argh, he wants to die, he can’t discuss any of this shit with anyone, let alone Otose. He buries his face in his hands, hoping for the sweet release of death; apparently Otose’s stone-cold heart is hardened against his impending demise, because she ploughs on.

“I may know what you get up to during the day – for a former terrorist who’s dating a high-level cop, you’re terrible at covering your tracks, by the way – but I have no idea what’s going on in here.” She directs a pitiless flick at his forehead. “What’s eating you, Gintoki?”

Clearly his self-control deserves some kind of medal today, because he manages to bite back his instinctive response of _I don’t ask you what crawled up your ass and died, and I’d appreciate it if you’d extend me the same courtesy_. Instead he just moans a little through his fingers, and that’ll do, surely?

Well, what else can he say? That Hijikata not only hid the fact that he had a broken leg, but he also refused to tell Gintoki how he got it, even under pain of cigarette deprivation? If that’s where the two of them are at, then a catastrophic break-up is surely not far behind, so why should he even bother? If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that the longer these things drag on, the worse the mess when they inevitably end. He’d definitely prefer it if this time around, his love life didn’t have a body count.

And it would be nice if it wasn’t _completely_ shitty at the end, if for no other reason than it’d make it difficult for them to hook up for an occasional quick fuck later down the track.

Otose has apparently realised that no coherent responses are forthcoming from his direction, and so she switches tack. “I know how he broke his leg.”

_What –?_

She’s just been sitting calmly on this knowledge this whole time, while he’s been here moping and grovelling? He knows that he shouldn’t care, that it shouldn’t matter to him if his idiot fuckbuddy wants to keep his secrets, but the curiosity is _killing_ him.

“And…?” He tries not to sound as desperate as he feels, but there’s a fair chance he’s not succeeding. The fact that he’s practically white-knuckling the sleeve of her kimono is probably a bit of a giveaway.

“And what?” She pulls her arm back. “If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I did!”

She actually looks mildly surprised at that – like Gin-san is some kind of emotionally stunted jerk, instead of a paragon of self-knowledge. “And what did he say?”

“He said that he broke his leg.”

Her mouth twitches into a smile, and she lets out a soft _hmph_. “Anything else?”

Gintoki rolls his eyes. “Just that his job is dangerous. Like sitting around in his stupid car chugging mayonnaise puts him at risk of anything other than damming off all his arteries.”

“I see.”

Otose looks thoughtful; she pauses the conversation to unhurriedly top up his drink, and once she’s done he snatches his glass away before she can change her mind, savouring the burn of whatever the hell it is as it goes down his throat.

“Hey.” She raps her knuckle on the bar, and he looks up, only a little groggy.

Otose still looks serious. Almost… _kind,_ if such an outlandish thing were possible. “Gintoki… will you listen to me if I tell you it’s nothing to worry about?”

He will absolutely do no such thing. Partly because clearly this whole thing between him and Hijikata is going to collapse in a screaming heap sooner or later, and partly because the thought of the old bag trying to be _nice_ is not something he wants to entertain, and partly because listening to advice has never gotten him anywhere good in general.

He _will,_ however, exercise his right to complain. “Why does everyone except me know what’s going on?”

Otose levels a stare at him that’s only around the midpoint of her intimidation range. “Do you give other people any reason to think that you can respond tactfully to what they tell you?”

_The fuck is she on about?_

“Hey! I’ll have you know that Gin-san is the very height of tact.”

“Mm-hmm.” It’s not quite so much the ‘mm-hmm’ of _Yes, Gintoki, you are completely correct, and I retract my previous slander,_ and more the ‘mm-hmm’ of _Gintoki, you are a fucking dick, and I’m not entirely sure why I put up with you,_ but he’s – mostly – beyond caring. He and Hijikata are more or less over – it’s pretty much a given – and maybe at this point he just needs to concentrate on making it as clean a break as possible. 

Clearly Otose has given up; she leans back with a sigh. “It really is good for business to have the cops in your pocket. You should keep that in mind.”

Well, Otose isn’t the only one who’s done with this conversation. Gintoki gets to his feet, only staggering very slightly. “It’s ironic that you’d say that, given that it literally _isn’t_ any of your business.”

“Hmm.” He can hear her shuffling behind the bar, but he’s already making his way towards the door. “Gintoki?”

“Yeah?” He turns a little, but doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

He pulls his face into a smile, but he doesn’t feel even the slightest bit amused. “When have I ever done that?”

He lets the door close behind him and stands blearily in the morning light. _Gah._

What has he ever done to deserve getting into the kinds of messes he regularly finds himself in? Clearly, in the universe’s eyes, his life is just one big joke, and he’s had enough of it. 

Look, it’s just that now that this thing has been going on for longer than he’d bargained for, he’s had time to think through all the implications. There’s a certain level of trust being implied here, isn’t there? And with that kind of trust comes… revelations. About things. Gintoki has already run his mouth once about this kind of shit, and he doesn’t need to do it again. 

He’d feel more comfortable about it if the situation were slightly more equitable, but as it stands, what kind of deep, dark secret could Hijikata possibly have in his past that he’s so worried Gintoki will find out about? That he used to be a twink?! Big deal! And anyway, he already knows about that, since Okita was as per usual quite happy to sell Hijikata out with the photo evidence for nothing more than some gentle encouragement and half a packet of umeboshi Mintias. Umeboshi! Not even one of the decent, god-fearing flavours!

Pausing in the middle of the street, Gintoki raises a hand as he blinks up at the harsh, unyielding sunlight, feeling suddenly very like a butterfly about to be pinned to a corkboard. 

_Ugh._

It’s all too much to deal with. He doesn’t have time to unravel this mystery by himself, not with everything else he has going on in his hectic life. But thankfully, he knows a shortcut. Briefly, Gintoki fishes around in his pockets, on the off-chance he might have something of use in there – he has a tissue (used), a condom (unused), some pachinko balls, and two sticks of corn potage with D*raem*n on the wrappers that he probably stole from Zura the last time that idiot harassed him in his own home. Not promising, Gintoki thinks as he sifts through them with a finger – but then, nothing Sougo’s ever done has made him believe his loyalty comes at a particularly expensive price. 

And luckily for him, in addition to being cheap, Sougo is also completely predictable. It’s Wednesday, it’s eleven o’clock, and he should be patrolling the streets of Edo, so obviously he’s at the dango shop. 

He saunters his way over to where Sougo is lazing around on his arse enjoying his dango as if he hasn’t just staged a hostile takeover of the Shinsengumi vice chief’s position. He looks up with an air of mild expectancy as Gintoki approaches, probably hoping for some more umeboshi Mintias, the sick fuck. 

Gintoki dumps his collection of sundries on the bench next to Sougo’s plate.

“So. Your idiot boss. How’d he get the broken leg?”

Sougo glances down at the items beside him, before using the handle of his sword to push some of them (the tissue, the condom, the pachinko balls) to the ground, while others (the terrorist potage) he pockets. 

“Hello to you too, danna. How’s things going?”

Gintoki rolls his head back on his shoulders, groaning. Fine. He can play Sougo’s stupid fucking game, if that’s what he wants. 

“I’m radiant, thanks. Positively radiant. And you?”

Sougo shrugs, chewing on his empty dango stick. “Can’t complain. It’s good to finally be vice chief.”

“Congrats on the promotion,” Gintoki grinds out. There. Is that what he wanted? “Anyway, about that –”

“You’re right, danna. It’s about time I got back to work.” Sougo stands, stretching lazily. “I’ll see you around.” 

_Now wait just a minute –!_ You don’t just take a man’s potage and then wander off as if nothing had happened! They had a transaction, dammit! 

“Hey –” he says, grabbing Sougo’s jacket sleeve before he can get too far. “You didn’t answer my question. The broken leg. How’d it happen?”

Sougo sighs almost imperceptibly before turning back to look at him, expression indifferent. “It’s not really that funny of a story. I hardly laughed at all.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Gintoki snaps. “Just tell me so I can make up my own mind, instead of relying on your review service.”

Cocking his head, Sougo just shrugs. “Fine, danna, if you insist.” He flops back down on the bench, and Gintoki lets go of his sleeve with some reluctance, easing himself down next to him. Sougo is one slippery little bastard, and Gintoki’ll be damned if he lets him weasel his way out of an honest, straightforward answer.

“Oh, by the way, have you heard, danna?” The airy boredom in Sougo’s voice is decidedly more studied than his usual monotonous boredom, and Gintoki finds himself leaning towards him despite himself. “Your mob boss buddy Katsuo’s been under some strain lately. Turns out some of his men have been going behind his back to work with the Harusame, despite his orders to the contrary. Drug running, that kind of thing.”

Gintoki can feel his fingers inching towards his bokutou. “Go on.”

“The Shinsengumi have had their hands full trying to deal with the mess.” Sougo gives him a look that feels like it’s been calculated precisely to piss off Gintoki as much as is humanly possible. “I’m surprised you don’t already know about this. I mean, it’s confidential and all that, but _I’m_ telling you, and I don’t even like you all that much. You’d think that Hijikata-san would have at least yelled out something in the throes of passion, but I guess he just doesn’t feel like sharing with you.” 

Gintoki chooses to ignore that last remark… for the most part, anyway. “And?”

If Sougo feels at all thwarted or inadequate at not getting the response he so clearly desired, he doesn’t show it. “Not a lot more to say, danna. Just that while the Shinsengumi can’t mess with the Amanto, two-bit yakuza are another story. And if you don’t watch your step – or your legs, I guess – sometimes they mess back.”

“Right.” Gintoki nods, staring down the street at nothing in particular. “I see.”

Sougo sighs in a particularly exaggerated way, before yawning again. “Is that all, danna? Can I go now?”

“Sure. Whatever.” Gintoki sits on the dango shop bench as Sougo takes his leave, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee, and then his chin on his palm. Is that _really_ what Hijikata had been so desperate to hide from him? That he got beat up by some cheap thugs who’re moving junk for the Harusame? Standing, Gintoki gets the cricks out of his back, rolling his shoulders. Well, probably he had a good reason to do it. He probably knew what Gintoki’s reaction would be. 

Stretching his arms above his head and cracking his knuckles, Gintoki heads off towards the docks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive us in advance for what we are about to do, and please review the tags if needs be :)

_One week later_

“The hell is this?!”

Hijikata thumbs through the handwritten report, his irritation increasing in direct inverse proportion to the rapidly declining quality of the handwriting. He doesn’t know what’s pissing him off more: the illegibility of said report, or its content. What little he can make out of it, anyway.

… No, it’s definitely the content. The _fuck?_

If he’s reading this correctly – and it’s a big ‘if’ – then it sounds like there’s been some sort of yakuza-related free-for-all, involving a whole lot of non-lethal stabbing and zero actual policing. He knows for a fact that there aren’t any of Kurogoma Katsuo’s goons in the cells right now, so what the hell happened, and why haven’t the perpetrators been arrested?

And why have the Shinsengumi’s literacy standards plummeted from their not-great-but-acceptable pre-hospitalisation levels? Is this what the end result of one week of Sougo’s reign looks like? He supposes he should be grateful if this is the worst of it. Well, this, and the giant gilded medieval-style throne that Sougo had had installed in the conference room. Burning _that_ in the courtyard had taken up most of Hijikata’s morning, but it had to be done.

He sighs through his teeth, massaging his forehead. It’s not even lunchtime on his first day back, and already he wants to stab himself in the face just a little. Although it’s still an improvement on his previous state of being over the past week, which involved repeatedly opening his bedside cabinet on the pretext of looking for something to help him while away the long hours, then being surprised and disgusted when he inevitably discovered that filthy magazine in there. Every time, he’d hoped that someone had dealt with it while he was asleep, and every time, he was disappointed – _yeah, disappointed, that’s the word_ – when it was still there, staring stickily back at him, its rumpled pages murmuring _gaze upon me, Hijikata-kun_ in a voice that sounded suspiciously like what Gintoki would sound like if he were whisper-yelling from the corridor. He couldn’t leave it there for the next unsuspecting soul who occupied that room to stumble upon, so he’d had no choice but to take it with him when he left. 

… Shit, where was he?

Okay, he’ll deal with the most inconsequential thing first and get it out of the way, then work his way up. Ease himself back into it.

“Yamazaki!”

Yamazaki jumps to attention, saluting sloppily with his bandaged wrist and wincing. “Vice-Chief!”

“What the hell is this?”

Yamazaki looks at him sideways, as if it might be a trick question.

“It’s… my report on the situation at the docks?”

Honestly, Hijikata thinks, he brings these things on himself sometimes. “Why is it handwritten?” he manages to get out from between his teeth as they grind the filter of his cigarette away into nothing. “All one hundred copies of it?”

He doesn’t like the way Yamazaki’s eyes suddenly skitter away, looking at literally everything in the room except his face. “The, uh, the Shinsengumi’s annual photocopier toner budget was already used up,” Yamazaki eventually manages to get out. “Since we needed to photocopy the notices of Acting Vice-Chief Okita’s promotion, and your, uh, your –”

“Okay. Fine. Thank you, Yamazaki.” Hijikata cuts him off, staring down at the borderline-illegible garbage in front of him, and hopes Yamazaki can’t see the flush he just _knows_ is heating up his ears at this very moment. Why is he even embarrassed?! He broke his leg! It’s a perfectly respectable, non-butt-based injury! And he can be _pretty_ sure that Yamazaki, at least, has no idea how he got it.

The report really only gets worse the more he looks at it, though – what the hell did Sougo think he was doing? He was supposed to be _watching_ the yakuza thugs, not beating the shit out of them, which is really the only conclusion he can draw from what he’s reading here. One swordsman, thirty downed yakuza, a bunch of crates containing important evidence at the bottom of the harbour, and two months’ work down the drain. _Fan-fucking-tastic._

This definitely isn’t the kind of thing he needs getting around, especially if Sougo _is_ responsible for it. For the moment, it’d be better if it stayed on a strictly need-to-know basis. 

“Yamazaki,” he says, tossing the report aside. “Keep ten of these reports – the ones you can fucking read – and toss the others on the bonfire in the courtyard.”

“Vice-Chief?” Yamazaki blinks at him, mouth opening and shutting as if whatever connects his mouth to his brain has become unstuck.

“Something wrong with your hearing, Yamazaki?” Hijikata asks as he exhales a long stream of cigarette smoke. That would be all he needs – Yamazaki going deaf so he has to yell at him twice as hard as he does already. 

“No, Vice-Chief.” Yamazaki looks like someone just kicked his puppy, shat on it, and stole its favourite toy. “It’s just that I – I spent all night –”

“Here.” Hijikata grabs a pile of reports and thrusts them into Yamazaki’s arms, ignoring his pained yelp. “Burn this bullshit. Oh, and tell Sougo to get his ass in here.”

Yamazaki staggers under the weight, his wide eyes the only visible remnant of his obvious dismay. “Uh… yes, Vice-Chief.”

He totters from the room; there’s a series of rustling noises and a panicked shriek as a brisk breeze skitters through the compound, and Hijikata half-listens to the resultant sounds of Yamazaki scurrying about, dropping more papers than he’s managing to pick up, and generally yelling incoherently. There’s something that may or may not be a sob as the glow of the flames grows brighter on the other side of the shouji, and Hijikata takes a moment to appreciate the gentle warmth radiating through the screen. It’s nice. But shit, it also reminds him of the last time there was a fire of this size in the Shinsengumi compound – that he’s aware of, anyway – and suddenly it’s a little less soothing. He may be mostly over the events of two months ago, but that doesn’t mean he wants to relive them.

He raises his voice in the general direction of the courtyard.

“Oi! Yamazaki!”

There’s a long, long silence.

“… Yes, Vice-Chief?”

He lights another cigarette, letting a little of the tension seep out of his shoulders. “Make sure you put out that fire after you go get Sougo. Don’t want the place burning down.”

Something that sounds suspiciously like _I’ll burn_ you _down_ floats back to him on the breeze, but it’s barely audible by the final word, which means that Yamazaki is heading away from him, which is really all that he cares about right now. He’s feeling generous today, on account of it being his first day back, and also he’s just grateful that Yamazaki has started wearing pants again. This feeling of benevolence won’t last more than another fifteen minutes, tops, so Yamazaki’d better make use of it while he can.

He uses the time it takes for Sougo to make his leisurely appearance to make sure he hasn’t just hysterically hallucinated the content of the report, but no, it’s all there in black and white, written out in Yamazaki’s discouragingly shitty handwriting. 

“You wanted to see me, Hijikata-san?” 

Sougo lounges in the doorway, chewing gum and looking unbelievably bored, and shit, it’s all Hijikata can do not to hurl the report straight at his infuriating face. 

“Care to explain this?” he asks, contenting himself with tossing the report at somewhere around Sougo’s chest height; Sougo doesn’t bother to catch it, so it hits him and falls to the floor at his feet, splayed open on the tatami. 

“I didn’t do that,” Sougo says indifferently after glancing at the open page of the report for nowhere near long enough to have read even a single word of it. “That was all Yorozuya’s danna.” 

“Stop talking garbage, Sougo,” he says absently. He’s in the habit of ignoring Sougo’s first response to any question, because it’s never worth the effort; and anyway, he was listening just enough to hear the words _Yorozuya_ and _danna,_ which obviously means that Sougo is just trying to rile him up. Well, it won’t work.

“Ah, I see.” The corner of Sougo’s lip curls into a smile. “And so it begins, eh, Hijikata-san? First it’s just the small stuff: nicking some strawberry milk at the conbini, not paying for his share of the dango, stiffing his landlady on rent. You let the small things slide, for the sake of marital harmony.”

 _Now_ Hijikata is awake, although he really wishes he weren’t. “The hell?! Shut up, Sougo. Don’t go having disgusting fantasies about my se– about my life!”

“Slowly it builds up over time, until the next thing you know, he’s having sleepovers with known terrorists and you’re doing nothing about it.” Sougo blinks. “Although he was already doing that before the two of you started sticking it in each other, which really seems like it should’ve raised some red flags on your part. You’re a disgrace to the Shinsengumi, Hijikata-san. Jam a pair of chopsticks into your heart and put me out of my misery.”

Hijikata pauses for a moment to formulate his dazzling smackdown, going over all the relevant information and sorting it so that he can devise a riposte that is somewhat more scathing and eloquent than _no, you_.

He scoffs, even as Sougo starts to smirk, his eyes lighting up in that way that Hijikata has come to dread.

_No. There’s no way he’s telling the truth. Gintoki would never decide that it would be a good idea to go and whale on the yakuza for shits and giggles. I mean, okay, he’s gone and done… pretty much exactly that in the past. More than once. But he usually had a reason. Kind of._

He looks up from his position on the floor, cursing himself for not having stood up before Sougo had entered. Now the fucker is standing there in the doorway, lording it over him, his expression sliding into something that could charitably be called a leer.

There’s nothing for it. Hijikata grits his teeth against the inevitable.

“Okay, I’ll bite your stupid fucking bait. Why did Gintoki decide to go and attack Katsuo’s men?”

“Probably because he thinks they broke your leg.”

Hijikata stares at him, realising he has his mouth hanging open like some kind of idiot, his cigarette dangling. “ _What?_ Why the _fuck_ would he –” 

“Probably because I told him they did.” Sougo lazily pops his gum. “Well, I didn’t really tell him. I implied it, and the rest was all him. By the way, Hijikata-san, how _did_ you break your leg?”

Hijikata has never been convinced of the existence of any particular kind of afterlife, and especially not any particular kind of hell – because honestly, this being hell would just be too damn lucky. No, this is his actual life, and he apparently just has to keep on living it. He stares at Sougo as the little shithead hoists himself upright again from his position against the door, treating Hijikata to a view of the inside of his mouth as he yawns widely, before looking down at him. 

“Honestly, you should break up with him, Hijikata-san – because as long as you’re going out with him, nothing I can do to you can compare to the situation you’ve created for yourself.”

Hijikata gnaws aggravatedly on his cigarette and riffles through Yamazaki’s reports again, desperately trying to find a hint as to whether or not what Sougo just said is true. If he takes the best bits of each report, it might be just enough to put together one legible document. Maybe.

His heart begins to sink, slowly but inexorably, as all the pieces start to fall into place. There aren’t many swordsmen around who could take out several dozen yakuza without breaking a sweat. Sure, Sougo could do it, but Sougo would’ve also left a pile of corpses the size of the O-Edo Dome without even trying to cover his tracks.

Sougo also wouldn’t have dumped the evidence in the water. Not that Hijikata thinks he would’ve necessarily delivered a seized shipment of drugs to the Shinsengumi evidence locker – he would’ve perhaps sold it on for a tidy profit or, more likely, dumped it all in Hijikata’s quarters while Hijikata was asleep and then taken incriminating photos – but he’s not the type to let something that valuable meet an anticlimactic and profitless end at the bottom of Edo Harbour.

No, this whole situation has Gintoki’s greasy fingerprints all over it. And Hijikata isn’t really sure how he feels about that.

It’s not like he cares if Gintoki decides to run off and bust up the yakuza – it’s one less thing for the Shinsengumi to worry about, quite frankly, and honestly one of the better things about Gintoki is that Hijikata doesn’t especially have to worry much about his wellbeing. He’d kind of thought Gintoki extended the same courtesy to him. It’s a bit of an unpleasant surprise to find out that maybe Gintoki’s opinion of Hijikata’s abilities isn’t quite as high as Hijikata’s opinion of Gintoki’s.

And okay, the fact that Gintoki went on a rampage on Hijikata’s behalf is a _little_ flattering, but mostly it’s just embarrassing. And also annoying. Gintoki can’t just barge in and do whatever he likes when it’s Shinsengumi business, even when he wants to deliver fiery revenge from on high upon whoever he thinks dared inflict some kind of damage upon Hijikata’s person. _Especially_ when he wants to do that. Hijikata’s personal pride aside, he also has an entire police force to run. If his fuckbuddy – partner – whatever the hell Gintoki is – is going to swoop in and defend his honour every time he gets a papercut, then he might as well hand in his sword and get sent away to live on a nice big farm in the country, because there’ll be nothing left for him. Without the respect of his men, he can’t do this. And if he can’t do this, then what’s the point?

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes and very deliberately _not_ looking in Sougo’s direction. It’s okay. They can work this out. He can tell Gintoki to butt the fuck out of Shinsengumi business unless either he’s been explicitly invited or it’s a life-or-death situation, and Gintoki can pull some fucking disgusting wax out of his ear and pretend not to have understood a word he said, and then they’ll be good.

Okay. Okay. He can do this. He’d never thought he’d be the type to have serious relationship talks, but it’s not so bad. He talks sense into his idiot subordinates all the time, and only a small percentage of them are actively plotting his downfall, so that’s pretty much the same thing, right?

His mouth twitches into a small, helpless smile, and he ducks his face further behind Yamazaki’s report. Yeah, it doesn’t _entirely_ suck that Gintoki is concerned for his welfare. The only other people who’ve ever cared about how he’s doing on anything more than a professional level have been Kondou and Mitsuba; he never would’ve thought that that goddamned asshole Yorozuya would ever join such lofty company, but, well, the world is a fucking weird place.

It’s just that Mitsuba would never have stomped on his pride by intervening in the aftermath of what was, in the end, a pretty minor injury, and Kondou’s allowed to do whatever the hell he likes by way of being Kondou. _‘Tricked Hijikata into blowing him in an alleyway one time’_ does not really qualify Gintoki as somebody who can interfere in Hijikata’s professional life.

He sighs out a long, slow breath and stubs out his cigarette, before hauling himself stiffly to his feet. Sougo looks a little surprised – as much as he ever looks surprised by anything, anyway – but Hijikata doesn’t really give a shit.

He’s still got a few hours left of his shift, and he has to try to do his best to sort out the sorry fucking mess that Yorozuya has lovingly crafted for him, like some kind of exquisitely shitty get-well-soon gift.

But after that, he’s going to go find Gintoki. He’ll tell him that in order to take part in police work, he actually has to join the police force and pay his goddamn taxes; otherwise, he needs to leave it to the professionals. Then they’ll bicker for a bit, slap each other around, have a drink, and maybe head back to Gintoki’s if there’s no one else there. It’s been over a week since they last… hung out, after all – and, as much as Hijikata doesn’t want to admit it, he’s missed it.

Yeah, sounds like a plan.

He shoulders his way past Sougo, and heads off past the merrily burning bonfire in search of Yamazaki. He needs a legible copy of that report.

***

Somehow, shockingly, Hijikata doesn’t manage to run into Gintoki in the streets of Kabukichou in the first couple of hours after his shift. It’s a minor miracle, but one that, for once, he can’t appreciate. It’d be nice to be able to pass off what he has to say as a mere chance meeting – _For God’s sake, Yorozuya, do you really not have anything better to do than get under my feet, and while we’re on the topic_ – but apparently the one time he actually _wants_ to run into Gintoki on the street is the one time the stupid piece of shit is making himself scarce. There’s a good chance, therefore, that Gintoki’s still asleep. The sun’s still well above the horizon, and that lazy ass probably stayed up till all hours, pissing away his barely earned money into a pachinko machine. 

In the end, there’s no option but this one: to go meet the bear in its own stinky, filth-encrusted den.

Which is how he’s found himself walking briskly towards Gintoki’s place, a low-level nervousness settling in the pit of his stomach as he mentally runs through all the different things he could say to Gintoki, and all the different things that Gintoki could say in response.

He’s just running through the scenario where Gintoki holds him down and squeezes orange juice into his eyes when he realises that he’s in sight of the Yorozuya offices, and he swallows hard. This is it. Do or die.

… Well, not _die_.

Probably.

Hijikata lights a cigarette and sidles up towards Gintoki’s place with as much of an inconspicuous air as he can muster, at which he probably fails dismally. But at least the old hag doesn’t seem to be lurking about, and there’s no screaming or breaking glass, so the place is likely blessedly free of children.

Knocking, unsurprisingly, doesn’t elicit much of a response from within – neither does knocking louder or yelling _Oi! Yorozuya!_ through the screen. Hijikata’s just teetering on the brink of turning around and leaving, not certain if the churning in his gut is relief or disappointment, when the shouji finally slides open to reveal Yorozuya in all his pyjama-clad, perm-headed state of semi-wakefulness, one hand raised to run his fingers through his hair, the other one scratching his arse.

“I thought you were the TV license guy,” Gintoki finally says, yawning widely before turning away. “Are you coming in or what?”

Hijikata dithers on the doorstep a moment longer, since now that Gintoki’s turned around he’s being treated to a full view of the giant rip across the backside of his pyjama pants, which is, of course, just big enough for Hijikata to see absolutely everything, since naturally Yorozuya has negative amounts of shame. 

He mentally slaps himself. _Focus. There’ll be time for that later._

Setting his jaw, he steps over the threshold and slides the door closed behind him, then pulls off his boots. There’s a brief twinge of nostalgia for that first fumbling, ridiculous night they spent together – aside from that bit where he’d had to ritually burn his sandals after one of them touched the cesspit of Yorozuya’s bathroom floor – and it compels him onwards.

He doesn’t want things to be weird between them. Not _weird_ weird. He just has to get Gintoki to understand that he’s not some fragile flower who needs defending, and then they can get down to business. Because really, he _is_ feeling pretty pent-up after spending a week in that stupid hospital bed with only a pre-loved fetish mag for company and not even enough privacy to relieve some tension.

“Anyway, Yoro—”

That’s as far as he gets before he finds himself shoved back against the wall of the foyer, Gintoki’s hand on his shoulder, his mouth crashing against Hijikata’s hard enough that the back of his head knocks against the wall. It’s startling, sure, but it’s not as if this kind of thing hasn’t happened before, and if he’s being honest, it’s also the tiniest bit flattering – there’s a heat and desperation in the sweep of Gintoki’s tongue in his mouth and the fumbling of his fingers against his belt that would be really, really easy to just give in to. He’s not made of stone, dammit!

But in the end, Hijikata knows himself well enough to know that until he gets this shit off his chest, he’s not going to be able to think about anything else, and Gintoki will probably be able to tell – and so, with a colossal force of will, Hijikata disentangles his mouth, grabs Yorozuya’s hand where it’s trying to shove its way inside his pants, clears his throat, and says, “We need to talk.” 

Surprisingly enough, Gintoki actually does stop what he’s doing, going still against him before he pulls back with a melodramatic sigh, levelling a particularly dead-eyed stare at him. “All right, so talk then.”

With that said, he turns and wanders off towards the loungeroom/office, throwing himself down on his back on the sofa and slinging one arm over his eyes. 

The whole performance is a little off-putting in more ways than one, but for God’s sake, Hijikata refuses to be swayed by these kinds of dramatics.

… Well, mostly, anyway, since now that it’s come down to it, he finds himself clearing his throat again and wondering what to say. Sougo’s words about how nothing he can do could compare to the situation Hijikata has created for himself drift through his mind, and in the end, it’s the suggestion that the little turd could actually be right about something that gets him to open his mouth and talk. “So. What have you been up to lately?”

Gintoki lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Nothing much.”

Well, that’s obviously not true. But fine – they can do things Gintoki’s way, if that’s what he wants. “Been around any warehouses lately?”

In response, Gintoki lets out another long sigh, and his bare foot starts tapping against the seat of the sofa – a sign of guilt if ever Hijikata’s seen one. “Sounds like you already know exactly what I’ve been up to. So why don’t you just come out with it, then.” 

Hijikata bites back a snitty response and slowly counts to ten in his head. He hadn’t expected things to go smoothly – since when has anything involving that idiot even come close to being easy? – but this rapid sleepy-horny-surly progression is a bit much, even for Gintoki. Looks like it’s going to be up to Hijikata to be the adult here… which isn’t a surprise in the slightest, but still.

It’s weird, having this not-argument while Gintoki sulks on the couch with his face hidden behind his arm and Hijikata just stands there and looks down at him like a disapproving schoolmarm, so he eases himself down on the other sofa. Normally Gintoki would’ve shuffled over to make room for him – or at least made it clear that he was issuing a _go on, just try to make me move_ challenge – but he’s being downright prickly today.

It’s obvious that Gintoki is just going to deflect all day if he’s given the opportunity, and Hijikata really isn’t in the mood to put up with his bullshit. He came here to clear the air and get laid, dammit, not to watch a petulant manchild mope on the couch.

_Time to cut the crap and get to the point._

“Why did you do it?”

“Why do you think I did it?”

Well, Hijikata already knows the answer to that question. He sighs. “All right, fine. But why did you throw the crates in the harbour?”

“Because I’m not a narc? What the hell do you take me for, Hijikata-kun?”

Hijikata looks down at his hands sitting on his knees and makes the very definite decision: _Not today, Satan._

“Look, it doesn’t matter why you did it. I can’t have you barging in and extrajudicially taking care of… things like this.” He swallows. Okay, so he gets that Gintoki is unlikely to stop doing that. Hijikata just needs him to stop doing it on _his_ behalf when he thinks Hijikata has gotten the shit kicked out of him by some low-life scum. _Especially when that’s not even what happened._ As quickly as the thought comes, he pushes it to one side. The only thing that matters in _this_ conversation is what Gintoki _thinks_ happened. “All right?”

“Fine, fine. I won’t come to your work and slap the Bakufu’s dick out of your mouth, then.”

Hijikata’s eye twitches. But didn’t Gintoki just agree? Sure, it was in the most obnoxious possible way, but it still counts, right? Gintoki being obnoxious is nothing new, after all. 

_There, Sougo, you little pissant. There’s no situation. It’s all sorted out –_

“So I guess we’re broken up then,” Gintoki says lazily, without bothering to lift his arm from his face. 

Hijikata blinks. He’s not quite sure what Gintoki just said – _So I guess I’ve woken up then,_ maybe? Bit of a non sequitur, but Gintoki _is_ lying around in his assless pyjamas at what is more or less dinnertime, so it kind of makes sense.

That’s gotta be it. Because there’s only one other thing he could’ve said, and it’s so astronomically stupid, even by Gintoki’s standards, that there’s no way. There’s just no way.

His fingers twitch habitually around a cigarette that isn’t there, and he works his mouth until sounds come out. “… Say that again, asshole. Because I don’t think I quite heard you.”

Gintoki’s arm doesn’t move from over his face; his words are muffled, but somehow still unmistakeably clear.

“So. I. Guess. We’re. Broken. Up. Then.” Hijikata can practically hear the eyeroll that accompanies Gintoki’s words, and it’s all he can do to not leap over the table and pummel his fist into any available bit of flesh. “Sheesh, Hijikata-kun, better get those ears of yours checked – I’d hate for you to have to quit your day job harassing innocent citizens because you fucked your hearing watching repeats of _Ladies 4_ late at night through your headphones.”

The fucker – he _knows_ that the special late-night viewing slot is reserved for Tomoe-chan, dammit – but beyond that –

_What the ever-loving fuck?!_

Is he being broken up with? Is he really, truly being broken up with, over what – asking Gintoki not to sabotage his work and embarrass him in front of his men?! The hell is _wrong_ with this moron?

More to the point – does Gintoki not even give a shit? Why is he lying there and monotoning as if he’s just complaining about not wanting to get up and do half a day’s semi-honest work? Does this whole thing between them really not mean –

He supposes that he must’ve jumped over the table at some point anyway, because one of his hands is prising Gintoki’s arm away from his face, and the other is bearing down on his chest, just high enough to put a little pressure on his throat. He’s not sure that Gintoki would normally let him get away with something like this, but rage tightens his grip on Yorozuya’s arm to the point where even Gintoki would probably struggle to free himself.

Not that he’s trying. The fucker is just lying there, not even looking at him, and it’s so fucking infuriating that Hijikata digs his knee into Yorozuya’s midsection instead, freeing up his hand so that he can grasp the asshole’s jaw and force him to meet his eyes.

Except that Gintoki’s eyes slide to the side, and Hijikata tightens his fingers around his jaw. He pulls in a few ragged breaths, trying to get his heart to stop hammering in his throat for long enough for him to force a few words out past it.

“You good-for-nothing asshole, at least have the decency to look at me when you say something that stupid. The fuck are you thinking?!” 

Yorozuya turns his eyes towards Hijikata then, and he almost draws back – the stare is stone cold. The kind of look that’d be more at place in a battlefield.

“What, Mr Government Official – you really want to date someone like me? Someone who hangs out with known terrorists?”

Hijikata almost loosens his grip in surprise – he’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t _that_. He shakes his head in bewilderment.

“Of course I fucking know about that, you jackass! I passed Katsura on the stairs last week! He told me he thought my performance in _Yorozuya vs Shinsengumi XII: Loud and Lewd at the Laundromat_ was the most touching thing he’d seen all year!”

_And it absolutely was, but that’s not the point right now!_

It seems like _that_ has managed to shock a reaction out of Gintoki – his eyes widen and his mouth falls open just a little, before his expression shutters again.

But really, what did the idiot think – that Hijikata was too dumb to be aware of this?! It’s insulting, really. Of course he frigging knows. Katsura and Kondou play strip Uno on weekends, for crying out loud.

At one point, a potential romantic interest being friends with a terrorist would’ve been well and truly filed under the ‘dealbreaker’ category, but, well, his life is not what it once was. He’d had to either adjust and move with the times, or go mad. He’d chosen to adjust.

“I’m the Shiroyasha!” Gintoki yells desperately, and it’s all Hijikata can do not to laugh in his face. Is he for real?! “Big scary demon! Most-wanted terrorist! Killed a bunch of your guys!”

“Of course you’re the fucking Shiroyasha!” he yells back. “I’ve known that since episode 247, you moron!”

Okay, he probably should’ve worked it out a little earlier than that, but whatever. He’d certainly known about it for long enough to go into this thing with his eyes wide open.

He relaxes his grip just a little, though he doesn’t let go entirely, and takes a moment to catch his breath and think things through. The hell is Gintoki getting at? Obviously he’s trying to get Hijikata to break up with him, but his excuses are lame as fuck, and his actual reason is completely fucking opaque. 

Hijikata looks down at Gintoki, who has looked away again, but who is also looking flushed and rumpled, his chest heaving. He looks _good_ right now, but also really punchable. If he’d wanted to get beaten up so badly, he could’ve just worked something out with Hijikata beforehand, rather than going to the fucking lengths of making Hijikata think that he was going to _break up with him!_

Hijikata laughs shakily – he’s angry, but there’s also relief pumping through his veins. “Fucking moron. Any other truth bombs you want to drop on me? Any other dumb reasons as to why you want to end this, instead of just telling me what’s going through your sorry excuse for a brain?”

“Okay. I’ve got one for you.” Gintoki meets his eye once more. “I used to fuck Takasugi.”

Hijikata stares down at him. “What?”

Yorozuya definitely rolls his eyes this time. “Oh, come on, Hijikata-kun. I know I was giving you shit before, but I know your hearing’s actually not that faulty.”

The words are registering in Hijikata’s brain on some level, but every single other level is just _what_ and _what the fuck_ and _not even Yorozuya could sink that low_ and _him?!_

This is just – he doesn’t think he’s going to actually be sick, but he’s sure as hell not feeling too great. The fact that Yorozuya apparently decided to just casually spring it on him in order to further his inexplicable quest to break up with him is definitely not helping.

If it’d been someone like Katsura, he might have been able to deal with it – he wouldn’t _like_ it, but, well, to be honest, he’s often kind of wondered about that whole thing and what’s going on there. But Takasugi… Takasugi is on another level. Aside from anything else, he doesn’t have a single redeeming feature. He’s a surly, annoying, stupid-haired, faux-mysterious asshole who’s constantly smoking like he thinks it makes him look cool or gives him a personality – he would suck even without being Edo’s most wanted.

“Hey. Earth to Hijikata.”

Gintoki waves his hand in front of Hijikata’s eyes, and Hijikata notices belatedly that his grip must’ve relaxed to the point of letting Gintoki go. He’s surprised that he didn’t just fall off the sofa in his shock, so he’s doing pretty well, all things considered.

He stares down at Gintoki, who stares back at him with a lazy smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, Hijikata-kun? Got anything to say? Any questions? I’m happy to answer in excruciating detail.”

“How….” Hijikata coughs, and tries again. “How long?”

“How long were we fucking?” Gintoki’s eyes take on a dreamy, hazy look of recollection, and okay, now Hijikata _really_ might throw up. “Do you mean in general, or do you mean how long could we go for in one session? Because we had to keep it quick and dirty, what with there being a war on and everything, so we never managed to keep it going all night, if that’s what you mean. But in general terms… probably a year, give or take. Plus at least six months of weird pining beforehand.”

A year. A year of – of _that_.

Gintoki’s hand moves a little, and Hijikata suddenly becomes aware of just how close the two of them still are, and just how much it looked for a moment like Gintoki’s hand was coming up to cup his cheek. Normally he would’ve leaned into the touch – albeit with a grumble and an eyeroll – but now it’s just – he can’t. Not right now.

Hijikata pushes himself back up off Gintoki in a hurry, hopping to his feet and taking a step back on shaky legs. Gintoki levers himself up onto one elbow, his expression inscrutable.

He needs to go back to the barracks, take a good, long shower, and then go beat the hell out of his men in the training room for a while. And then, maybe, he can figure out what to do about this – this giant fucking mess. In his mind’s eye, he can see Sougo absolutely shaking with laughter, and goddammit, that’s all he fucking needs, on top of everything else. 

“What the _fuck,_ Yorozuya.” The words sneak out of his mouth before he can think, but honestly, it’s not as if he particularly cares to stop them right now. “Why the fuck are you telling me this?” 

“No reason,” Gintoki says, waving his hand around airily. “Except I suppose I just value honesty in a relationship.”

Hijikata can feel the blood rising up his face to his hairline – and honestly, is _that_ what this is all about? _Seriously?_ “Honesty, huh? So you sticking your hand down my pants when I got here was just, what, a friendly hello? Is that how you greet all your houseguests? Because it’s pretty fucking obvious now that you’d already decided that the two of us were through before I got here, so I’m not sure where _honesty_ comes into all of that.”

“Maybe I do,” Gintoki says mulishly. “You don’t know.”

Hijikata can hear his voice getting louder, and he knows he should control it, but he _can’t,_ dammit. “What I _know_ is that you’re a useless fucking asshole who can’t be trusted to give me the time of day, let alone to let me do my job or tell me the truth about what –”

He cuts himself off before he can say anything else and kicks the leg of the couch, hard. It’s either that or beat the living hell out of Gintoki, and it’s way too tempting right now. _Why_ does he have such terrible taste – _why_ did he ever think that it could work out with someone like Gintoki –

He takes a slow, shaky breath. Gintoki is watching him with such a lack of expression that it’s almost a little frightening. He should be yelling back, saying something unutterably stupid, throwing punches – anything but _this_.

“Look.” Hijikata rubs at his face, willing his brain to function logically. He needs to get out of here so that he can think things through without being subjected to Gintoki’s dead-eyed stare. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

Gintoki shrugs. “Like I said – broken up.”

That – that’s it. He can’t do this right now. If this is how Gintoki’s going to be – fine.

Fine.

Hijikata grits his teeth hard to keep the torrent of abuse firmly locked away, and stomps towards the door.

“Hey – Hijikata.”

He stops in the doorway, and does battle with himself for long seconds. Stay? Go? Skewer the asshole on his sword and slowly roast him over a fire?

In the end, he doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t turn back to face Gintoki, either.

“What?”

There’s a long pause before Gintoki finally answers him. 

“I’ve just been broken up with.” His voice turns leering. “I could really use a pity fuck.”

“… Goodbye, Yorozuya.”

He pulls his boots on quicker than he’s ever managed before, and slams out into the cool evening air. The steps clatter beneath him as he hurries down them, and his mind whirls, full of all thoughts and no thoughts at all, with _that fucking asshole_ playing on a loop beneath it all. And beneath _that,_ the small, annoying voice that tells him that really, he should have known. 

And damn it all, the old hag is there at the bottom of the stairs, holding some empty beer bottles in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and staring at him with her disconcerting gaze. She raises an eyebrow at him, but Hijikata just turns away and quickens his steps, breaking into a jog once he’s out on the street.

Maybe he doesn’t need time to think things through, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

_Three days later_

Gintoki believes that he may be drunk.

He’s not sure why, or for how long he’s been in this state. But he’s _pretty_ sure he’s drunk. Like, at least ninety-one per cent sure. Why else would he be face-down on what appears to be a bar of some kind, while his head swims fast enough to put Mikoshiba Momotarou to shame and the smell of vomit – his own, presumably – wafts into his nostrils?

It would be nice, he supposes, to remember why he’s drunk. But he’s clearly gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to ensure that he’s downright shitfaced, so presumably past him had a good reason for going to all that trouble. So, really, who is he to argue with that?

He gropes about blindly on the bar, until – _aha!_ – he finds what feels like a bottle. Triumph surges through him, and he slaps at the bottle until it’s horizontal, ignoring what sounds like _Oi! What the hell are you doing with my beer, asshole?!_ and instead reaching out with his lips until they meet the bottle’s neck. He can’t see it, but he doesn’t need to be able to see it in order to reach the sweet nectar within, like some sort of honeyeater.

Perhaps he _is_ a honeyeater. It’s worth a try. He sticks his tongue as far as it’ll go into the neck of the bottle, twisting it this way and that, but there’s nothing more than the sour aftertaste of beer and some other guy’s spit.

He pulls his tongue out. Mostly. Enough, anyway.

“Garçon,” he calls out, “this flower is defective. Bring me another.”

Possibly he falls asleep after that, because the next thing he’s aware of is the all-too-familiar sensation of a hand tightening in his hair, followed by the also-too-familiar sensation of said hand yanking his head backwards for a moment, before slamming his face back into the unforgiving surface of the bar.

“Uncalled for!” he yells, after the requisite ‘ow’ and ‘fuck’ are out of the way. He would jump to his feet and give the – quite frankly, fucking rude – interloper a piece of his mind, but there’s a staggering amount of strength keeping his head pinned to the bar, and ah, he may be just a little bit fucked.

“What was that, Gin-chan?”

… Yeah, definitely fucked.

_Shit._

He braces as best he can, but there’s not much that he can do against the force of a Yato repeatedly pile-driving his face into the bar, apparently determined to use it as some new and exciting form of punctuation.

“I’m – not – sure – I – heard – you!”

And he’s not sure what he’s saying – some kind of babbled _I’m sorry_ and _you’re right, you’re right_ and _please stop hurting me_ – but apparently, in the end, it’s enough for her, because she stops. Or maybe there’s just no more bar left for her to destroy. There are definitely splinters in his face, and he would pick them out, but it’s a bit hard when she’s dragging him out the door by his legs into the unforgiving light of day.

And, like, not even face-up, like some kind of civilised being. Nope – if his addled brain can be believed, the child-beast is dragging him face-down by the legs through the streets of Kabukichou, like the world’s worst rickshaw. Gin-san doesn’t have the suspension for this, dammit!

He can feel the gravelly road doing its best to scrub the handsomeness right out of his face, a loose scrap of rubbish finding its way up his nostril, and shit, today just gets worse and worse. Knowing Kabukichou as he does, he’s going to end up with a used condom in his mouth if he’s not careful – and okay, it wouldn’t be the first time, but there are times and places for that kind of thing, and this is definitely not one of them.

He wriggles about in Kagura’s iron grip, at least trying to turn over onto his back so he can confront his predicament face-up, but it’s no good. Not until she lets go of his legs altogether, letting them slam unceremoniously into the dirt with the rest of him, though at least this means he can roll over onto his side. It’s not foetal, he tells himself – it’s the recovery position. That’s what he wants: to not choke to death on the vomit he can feel surging uncomfortably high in his gullet. 

He _thinks_ that’s what he wants, anyway, as a shadow looms over him, and he cracks open an eye to see Kagura looking imperiously down upon him from above her gently quivering nostrils. 

“What?” he asks her weakly, once the looming and staring continues on past the tenth second. Can’t she just let Gin-san die by the side of the road in peace?

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Kagura asks, but the question is mystifying, and Gintoki can’t puzzle out what she might want him to account for. He feels like there’s _something,_ maybe, he ought to be remembering, but the thought eludes him almost as quickly as it comes. 

“Huh?” he hurls up at her belligerently, in lieu of an actual answer. 

“You’ve really done it this time, Gin-chan.” Kagura crosses her arms, her imperious glower becoming a disgusted sneer. “Didn’t you agree to consult with Mami before making any decisions that will affect our financial future?”

_Mami? What the hell is she talking about?_

It takes him a long, alcohol-soaked minute to realise that Kagura is, for some insane reason, referring to _herself_ – though he supposes ‘Mami’ _could_ be her street name or something – and that she’s now stridently pacing back and forth beside him on the street.

“You think it’s so easy to attract a man on a fat government salary once you reach a certain age?” she asks him, a few drops of her spittle landing on his face as she leans over him, hands on her hips. “You think it’s an easy life for a woman on her own? Anego told me once you hit thirty-five the best you can hope for is to settle for the first stinky-breathed loser who comes your way. And you’re a stinky-breathed loser to begin with, Gin-chan. How are we gonna find someone else stupid enough to give you money, huh? It’s not like you’ve even got a good rack to make up for your personality!”

This… this is _way_ too much for him to take in right now. He pinches his nose in order to stem the worst of the bleeding, and starts working through her questions in reverse order.

“You’re damn right Gin-san doesn’t have a good rack – he has a fucking _fabulous_ rack!” 

Kagura huffs disbelievingly, and Gintoki takes advantage of the momentary reprieve to take a breath through his mouth, before ploughing on. 

“Who the hell’s been giving me money in the first place? No one! I have no idea what you’re on about. And why on earth have you been listening to anything that Shinpachi’s gorilla sister has to say about anything?!” And finally, the most insulting thing in her whole damn diatribe: “And how the hell old do you think I am, anyway?! Thirty-five? The hell?!”

Kagura continues to tower above him, and he can practically feel the scorn dripping off her. Or maybe that’s just his blood. It’s certainly not a cold sweat. Gintoki is _not_ intimidated by four-foot-nothing of small child, dammit! He’s seen her cry real tears over a missing remote control! She’s not scary!

“I would’ve guessed at least forty-five, except it would be weird and creepy to have a forty-five-year-old living with a kid,” she says. “I’ve seen your doctor’s reports, Gin-chan. You have the pancreas of a decrepit old man.”

“That’s what Shinpachi’s for!” he snaps back, before remembering the whole point. “And what the hell? Forty-five?! You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Is it his dashing silver hair? It’s got to be the hair. And anyway, he remembers being a kid, and thinking that all adults were at least twenty years older than they actually were. It’s all part of being young and stupid. Emphasis on _stupid_.

“I’m twenty-seven, you idiot!” he yells, gesturing grandly at his chiselled, rock-hard, hot-as-balls figure with his free hand. “How the hell is _this_ even close to forty-five?”

“Oh, please.” It shouldn’t be possible for her to convey so much disdain, and yet. He would be proud of her, if it weren’t being aimed squarely in his direction. “You’ve been ‘twenty-seven’ for _years,_ Gin-chan. It was kind of cute to begin with, but now it’s just sad. That tax thief may have fallen for it, but he was stupid horny for you.”

Oh God, and here it comes, Gintoki thinks, as a sickening feeling hurtles through him. Reality rushing up to meet him, kick him in the nads, and punch him in the face as he lurches forward.

Oh shit. Oh _fuck._

He vomits profusely all over the footpath, and he’s suddenly very, very glad that Kagura knows that he’s currently shitfaced. He doesn’t think he could stand it if she realised that this is less of an _I just drank my whole body weight in alcohol_ vom, and more of an _I just deliberately ruined the best thing in my life like a complete fucking moron_ vom. Sure, some of it _is_ because his body is objecting to the fact that he intentionally poisoned it, but, yeah, far more of it is because of… that other reason.

Clearly, however much he drank wasn’t enough to completely obliterate the last few months from his mind. He had some weird sort of fuck relationship with that uptight arsehole, there was a hospital visit in there somewhere, something something Takasugi, the bang of the door… the specifics are blurry, but that’s still way more than he wants or needs to know. Other details are scrabbling at the corners of his brain, trying to claw their way into his conscious mind, but he’s having none of that.

Maybe going home is the best option. Otose has a whole stockpile of alcohol just begging to be drunk, and he’s got an inconvenient memory problem that needs solving. If he can get there quick enough, then he might not even remember anything else.

He looks up through bleary eyes at Kagura’s unyielding form as it towers over him. She looks disgusted, and rightly so.

Nothing to do now but turn on the patented Sakata Gintoki charm.

“Kagura-chan, you’re absolutely right.” He smiles up at her, trying to ignore the vomit that he can feel running down his chin.

Kagura, for her part, looks distinctly unimpressed. He was expecting surprise – he never concedes to her, because she’s never right – but this is… discouraging. She taps her foot. “And?”

“And you should take me home immediately so that I can clean myself up and think about what I’ve done.”

“And pay me and Shinpachi for all the work we’ve done over the past three days while you’ve been drinking yourself even more stupid.”

He waves a hand. “Sure, that too.” Right after he cleans the toilet, takes down the rubbish, and gets approved for a home loan.

It’s astonishing, how quickly Kagura’s demeanour brightens; it’s like she was never looming pissily over him at all. “Yeah! Let’s go, Gin-chan!”

She bends down to grab his legs, and –

“Wait! Wait!”

Kagura looks at him quizzically. “What?”

He makes an attempt at a smile. “How about you at least drag Gin-san face-up this time? Let an old man have his dignity.”

“Oh!” Kagura bounces delightedly from foot to foot. “Now your front and your back will match! Sure, Gin-chan!”

He eases himself onto his back, avoiding the worst of the puke, and closes his eyes as Kagura’s tiny hands very nearly crush his ankles. She bounds off down the street with a hoot and a yell.

With any luck, he’ll pass out before he gets there.

*** 

As per usual, his luck is not in – he’s in the midst of crafting a very pass-agg but nonetheless highly devastating missive to the Kabukichou neighbourhood association about the deplorable state of the roads around here, having just experienced every last one of them in an extremely up close and personal fashion, when Kagura’s direction changes and he finds his head thumping up the steps of the Yorozuya Gin-chan, a situation for which he really has no one to blame but himself for having his offices at the top of a flight of stairs. 

He can’t hear much of what Kagura’s saying over the deafening ringing in his ears as she dumps him in the middle of the living room floor, but it doesn’t really matter since all he wants to do is lie here and succumb to his catastrophic head trauma. But something tells him that that’s just not going to be possible; despite everything, he can sense two presences in the living room, and, taking the whole rest of his life as precedent, there’s absolutely no way either of them are going to shut the hell up and/or leave him alone. 

One of them he can tell is Shinpachi, who he can ignore – hell, he could ignore Shinpachi in his sleep. If ignoring Shinpachi were a competitive sport, Gin-san would be second on the podium, just behind the rest of the known universe.

But the other one – 

“Gintoki. You reek of the streets.” 

_Zura._

Of all the people, why _Zura?!_ What could he possibly want with the broken shell of a man who had once been Sakata Gintoki? Has he come to suck the last of the vital essences from his formless, desiccated husk?

It’s possible that he actually vocalised this thought, because he sees Katsura’s nose wrinkle in distaste before he says, “I have come to discuss a matter of some importance with you, Gintoki. But….” He looks up, evidently taking in Shinpachi and wherever the hell Kagura went. “I don’t think the content is for the innocent ears of children.”

Gintoki hears what sounds like Shinpachi scoffing and saying _Don’t worry, Katsura-san, my innocent ears were sullied long ago,_ but nonetheless, he seems to shuffle off to wherever, leaving Gintoki alone with Zura’s silent, judgemental basilisk’s gaze. 

“Gintoki, believe me, it’s not easy for me to come here and talk to you about this –”

To be honest, Gintoki is only half-listening, and he is _not_ having yet another conversation while someone hovers above him, so he does his best to slither across the room and haul himself up onto the sofa, where he can return any condemnatory stares that are directed his way. Katsura seems unfazed by this, calmly following his flailing progress across the floorboards, his hands tucked primly into his sleeves as he drones on about _it has come to my attention_ this and _while I would not ordinarily condone such things_ that.

Gintoki lets his head flop back onto the top of the sofa, his eyes roaming around the room, and _oh fuck,_ coming back here was a huge mistake, and not just because Zura seems determined to deliver his sermon come hell or high water or how little attention Gintoki is actually paying to it, but because this place is full of _memories_.

_That’s the wall he nailed me against._

_That’s where we watched the Tomoe 5000 marathon that I pretended to hate, when I only half-hated it at worst._

_That’s the desk that I’d just finally convinced him to blow me under, and then an actual customer_ did _call me on the phone, and he thought it was all part of the act and decided that it was a great time to demonstrate his newfound mastery of the gag reflex._

_That’s where he fell asleep that one time, and it was really fucking hard to keep from reaching out and touching his stupid shiny hair –_

He jerks upright. Shit, there’s nowhere in this whole house that’s safe from this. _Way_ too much has happened in the kitchen for him to be able to just wander in there and be free from Hijikata’s presence. Even the toilet has a weirdly fond association with the first time they did it.

And the bedroom is definitely out of the question, for so many reasons. He may not be able to remember much of the past few days, but he _does_ remember – suddenly and with startling clarity – the moment when he woke up the morning after it’d all ended. He’d opened his eyes, and the first thing he’d seen was Hijikata’s Tomoe-chan doll right next to his Ketsuno Ana, the two of them still facing the wall. The second thing he’d seen was the doorway as he’d hurried through it, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to obliterate all of his brain’s higher functions.

That stupid doll has been a daily fixture of his life for the past two months. Hijikata had never taken her back to the Shinsengumi barracks with him after that first night, and Gintoki had sometimes felt something suspiciously close to happiness whenever he woke up and saw her there. 

But now – now, if he goes back into that room, he knows that Tomoe-chan will be silently judging him. Worse, his beloved Ketsuno will be doing the same. Those two are thick as thieves, and, as much as he wishes otherwise, he can’t believe that Ketsuno Ana would support him in this, no matter how noble his intentions.

… Okay, so it _is_ possible for him to feel even worse than he’d already felt. Fucking wonderful.

He tunes his brain back in enough to register that Katsura is still pontificating about whatever the hell it is he’s on about. There’s no point in trying to reason with Katsura when he’s like this – or ever, really – and Gintoki’s patience is pretty much non-existent right now, so he just cuts in and talks over the top of the giant idiot. 

“Just come out and say whatever you came here to say so we can get to the part where I yell at you to get out, and then when you don’t, I throw you out,” he mumbles. His head is _killing_ him, and frankly, he’s quite impressed that he managed to form an entire sentence. He can’t sit here and listen to Zura bang on about some garbage or other – not when he could be rekindling his inebriated state elsewhere and _not_ listening to Zura banging on.

Zura likes to pretend he’s above it all, but Gintoki can see that beneath his prissy exterior he actually seems somewhat ruffled. He covers it well, though, straightening his already-straight shoulders and lifting his chin.

“Very well then, Gintoki,” he says, taking what appears to be a steadying breath before speaking once more. “I’m glad you’re no longer sullying yourself with that Bakufu dog –”

“Like you can talk!” Gintoki bellows. The fucking nerve! “I know you’ve been playing strip Uno with the gorilla who’s in charge of those Bakufu dogs!”

Katsura recoils slightly. “It’s not what you think! It’s a stirring matching of wits between two relentless enemies! A meeting of minds from across the bottomless chasm of ideology! A philosophical exchange between those who can never truly walk alongside one another!” He sniffs. “You wouldn’t understand, Gintoki.”

“You’re too right I don’t fucking understand! And I don’t want to!”

At least he and Hijikata had actually fucked! If they’d been meeting for a weekly naked card game with no further goal in sight, Gintoki’s pretty sure he would’ve offed himself from the sheer shame of it all.

“All of this is beside the point,” Zura says, perfectly composed, as if he didn’t just go off on some weird tangential rant about the philosophical benefits of seeing your enemy’s ballsack on the regular. He starts to stroll about the room, gesticulating in his pompous, _I am a thwarted educator of men_ way, and Gintoki makes a half-hearted effort to stifle his groan. “What I came here to say, Gintoki, is that, despite everything, I think you should ‘hook back up’ with that Bakufu scum.”

Gintoki stares at him, wondering if Zura has, finally, lost it, though it’s also eminently possible that ‘hook back up’ is some slang he saw on an internet forum and is now using in an effort to seem hip and with it without understanding what it actually means. 

“You _what?_ ” Gintoki eventually manages to get out, after several abortive attempts to form words. 

Katsura, clearly having warmed to his topic, doesn’t even do him the courtesy of looking mildly discomforted. He reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a handful of papers, spreading them out across the table in front of them. “Observe these statistics, Gintoki,” he says, as if Gintoki could observe the broad side of a barn right now. “In the three days since you called off your… let’s say ‘assignation’, the Shinsengumi has thwarted more Joui activities than at any point over the last two months. Your Vice Commander has been rampaging across Edo and causing nothing but inconveniences for me. I have had to abandon several important meetings, as well as having accrued a substantial fine since I have not been able to venture out to return my DVD boxset of _The Academic Who Ambles the Dusk_.” 

Gintoki is about to say _And yet, you’ve somehow managed to make your way here to come and harass_ me, when Zura looks across the table at him, skewering him with a particularly piercing look. 

“I put it down to lovesickness,” he says.

Gintoki stares at him, his brain doing that thing that he’s seen computers do sometimes when you accidentally click on a perfectly innocent link and it takes you to some sordid website you definitely had no intention of visiting, where they are obviously _trying_ to do something but nothing’s quite working the way it should, and, unlike the decent, wholesome Bentendo cartridge, you can’t just pull their bits out, blow on them, and stick them back in again.

Which is bad, because Zura seems to take his silence as some kind of implied assent, since he starts officiously neatening his papers, preparing to tuck them back into his sleeve. 

“Well. Now that that’s cleared up, Gintoki, I can tell my men that –”

“Wait a minute! We haven’t cleared up jack shit!” Gintoki finally manages to organise his brain enough to yell, slamming his hands down on the table. “What are you suggesting? That I start – start –” he tries to say the words, but his mouth keeps somehow swerving away from them, and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to deal with the other word Zura used, “start doing that again because what, it’s causing you _inconvenience?_ What am I to you? A piece of meat you can throw to the slavering dogs to get them off your tail?” 

Katsura’s expression doesn’t change even slightly in the face of this onslaught. “Every man should be willing to sacrifice his body for the future of his country,” he says in a particularly high-minded tone. 

Gintoki flops back, groaning. “Great. So you’re my pimp now? Because if that’s the case, you’re going to have to fight Kagura for the real estate.”

At this, Katsura frowns slightly. “I didn’t realise Leader already had this issue in hand. But nonetheless, there are certain things I think it’s more appropriate for me to address.” 

Unnervingly, Zura’s eyes flicker to his face before darting away again. A cold, sick feeling settles in the pit of Gintoki’s stomach. 

There is no way in hell that _that_ look bodes anything other than complete fucking ill. If he were more sober, he’d get up and throw Zura down the stairs right now and then board up the door to prevent him from re-entering ever again; as it currently stands, he’s going to have to sit here and deal with the consequences of whatever the hell it is that Zura is about to say. Better to rip the Band-Aid off quick and get it over with, then.

He rubs at his aching eyes, and slouches in defeat. “Well, go on.”

Zura edges closer to him, his voice dropping down to a conspiratorial volume. “Well – you see, Gintoki, that, ah, recent events – ahem – have brought to light that – ah –”

“Fuck’s sake! Spit it out already!”

“That you may not be aware of the best way to, hmm, woo a man. Sexually.”

_Huh?!_

The hell is this babbling idiot on about? Is Zura trying to, what, give him sex ed? _Him?!_ It’s fucking laughable, yet Gintoki can’t even dredge up a smile.

Katsura is still just standing there expectantly. From his sage expression, it’s clear that he believes he’s just imparted the wisdom of the gods upon those who observe him, and is awaiting a suitably awed response.

“The fuck is wrong with you, Zura?!”

Zura holds up a serene hand. “They say that denial is the first stage, Gintoki –”

“No, seriously!” Gintoki attempts to haul himself to his feet, realises that it’s a terrible idea, and falls back onto the sofa again. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? What are you even talking about? Where did you get such an astoundingly stupid idea, huh? Who’ve you been talking to? I’ll kick his ass!”

Zura simply reaches back into his sleeve by way of response. As soon as Gintoki catches the first glimpse of yellow, his heart sinks like a stone; he doesn’t need to see what’s on the paper to know what it is, although of course that doesn’t stop Zura from unfurling it and presenting it with a completely misplaced air of grandeur.

“Behold, Gintoki! Behold the results of your sexual hubris!”

Gintoki will _not_ behold the results of his sexual hubris, because he has never for a moment in his life demonstrated such a thing. He also doesn’t particularly want to behold the rather unpleasantly graphic picture of Hijikata’s butt, Photoshopped or not, and so he closes his eyes against the poster, Zura, the too-bright morning light, and the world in general.

Unfortunately, closing his eyes has no effect on his ears, and Katsura continues to just let complete garbage fall from his mouth while Gintoki sits there and wonders just where his life took a wrong turn.

“He may be my sworn enemy, but even I can’t say I approve of this kind of thing.” Gintoki can _see_ the idiot scrutinising the poster, even with his eyes closed. He keeps them firmly shut as said idiot continues, “I cannot imagine that Hijikata enjoyed receiving a debilitating butthole injury. Perhaps you should consider trying some sort of lubricating substance in future? I have consulted the internet and prepared you a list of appropriate options.”

Gintoki’s eyes open despite his own better judgement screaming at him to do absolutely anything else – just in time to see that Katsura has set up a little display, with various stick figures doing – is that a picture of – is that stick figure _bleeding_ –

“ _I didn’t do that!_ ” he hears himself shrieking, and this time he _does_ make it off the sofa, stumbling towards Katsura in his rage. It’s embarrassing, how easily Zura fends him off – a simple hand to the shoulder stops him in his tracks – but at least he’s fully vertical now. Gin-san is a lot of things, but he’s not going to sit around and be accused of being a shitty lay.

“I didn’t do that,” he says again, quieter now but no less pissy, and Katsura narrows his eyes at him.

“You didn’t?” Zura frowns, expression growing cold. “Then someone else did? Gintoki, I warn you, if this is a display of some kind of NTR fetish on your part, that any attempt to encroach upon my signature character traits will not be tolerated –”

“What? No! Of course it’s not!” Gintoki yells, clutching his head in his hands. Oh God! As if! He has literally no interest in stealing any of Katsura’s character points, least of all that one – if anything, he thinks he might have issues in the other direction. Certainly, the tantrum he’d thrown when the idea had occurred to him at about eleven-thirty last night that Hijikata could be anywhere right now having amazing rebound sex with God alone knows who had been enough to get him kicked out of the bar he’d been in and out into the lonely street. 

Zura, apparently satisfied, pays him no heed as he groans and shakes his head, instead examining the original poster. “I must say that I admire the professionalism of the design – the way that the text frames the butthole injury is quite ingenious. Perhaps I should have words with the Shinsengumi’s graphic designer and see if they would be willing to use their skills to promote the Jouishishi instead. Ha ha! What a coup that would be!”

Part of Gintoki actually wants to give Zura Sougo’s contact details just to see what would happen, but most of him just wants Zura to get the hell out of his house and take his godawful display with him. It’s just making him defensive of both Hijikata’s butthole integrity and his own sexual integrity, while also reminding him that the two of them are no longer a thing, and that apparently this fact is inescapable and will haunt him for the rest of his days.

“Look, Zura,” he finally manages to get out from between his gritted teeth. “I get it. But take it from me: there’s no need for any of this. Give it a week and Hijikata will be back to his usual levels of running around locking up you morons. You’ll just have to sit tight until then. Okay?” 

A week sounds about right, doesn’t it? That’s enough time for Hijikata to forget all about this, right? He’s got his so-called job and his gorilla. What else could a man ask for, in this economy?

Katsura looks doubtful and is perhaps inclined to argue, but whatever he’s about to say is curtailed by the return of Kagura and Shinpachi from the kitchen. Gintoki would have preferred that Zura’s erotic stick figure diorama wasn’t still sitting in the middle of the living room table, but on the other hand he _has_ shut up, and Gintoki supposes he can’t have everything. 

And it seems that Shinpachi, at least, has decided the best policy is to simply ignore the whole filthy tableau, sliding it aside so that he can put down his tray of drinks; Kagura on the other hand is studying it with altogether too much interest, though it becomes clear after a moment that it’s with the goal of yanking their little stick figure heads off and scattering them about, making the whole thing somehow even more macabre than it was to begin with. 

“Katsura-san, did you… say what you came here to say?” Shinpachi asks, studiously keeping his eyes on the tea as he pours it, and for God’s sake, Gintoki has never seen him more subdued. It’s as if the last of his spirit has finally been scraped out of him, and nothing he sees or hears can elicit any kind of reaction from him anymore. 

“I did, thank you, Shinpachi-kun. I believe he has come around to seeing things my way now.”

 _I have come around to no such thing,_ Gintoki does not bellow at him, because it would be entirely pointless. God. Now he knows how Shinpachi feels. It’s like everything he’s ever said and done may as well not have existed at all. 

Instead, he simply flops back down on the sofa, watching despondently as Kagura digs around for the remote control.

“Zura,” she says, when she finally manages to locate the damn thing and turns the TV on, throwing herself down on her stomach and swinging her legs in the air. “You should stay and watch _Affection's Danger Touchdown_ with us.” 

“I believe I will,” Zura says, taking a seat on the sofa behind her and accepting the cup of tea Shinpachi offers him, before turning a critical eye on Gintoki. “Perhaps you should watch it too, Gintoki. Perhaps it will teach you how to behave in a more gentlemanly fashion.”

“Sure. Whatever. Like I give a crap,” Gintoki says, and he can just _see_ Zura fighting down the urge to say something like _this is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about_ when the theme music to whatever preposterous drama that has them so engrossed starts up, and he and Kagura fall to bickering about whether this will be the episode when the two absurdly attractive idiots on the screen will finally admit their feelings for each other – an insipid premise if ever Gintoki’s heard one. 

He watches them all watching their stupid show – well, watching their stupid show (Katsura and Kagura) and picking the teapot up off the floor while bitching into the void (Shinpachi) – and for one brief, beautiful moment, he doesn’t feel like _complete_ ass. He has some pretty good things going for him in his life. He has the kids, he has friends, he has people who care for him. Sure, they’re all varying levels of clueless idiot and/or raging arsehole, but still. They’re _his_ clueless idiots and/or raging arseholes. Despite everything, he’s pretty lucky. He has good people around him. People who, for some unfathomable reason, have stuck by him despite everything.

… But then, that had been what had kicked off this whole lousy chain of events, hadn’t it? He knows how these things go. He knows he can push his luck only so far. He got greedy, and with the worst possible person – as if they could ever make it work! He was fucking the Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi, for crying out loud! It’s like Gintoki was just _begging_ for fate to burst into his house and wreck up the place, and probably kick him in the balls and spit on him on its way back out the door. _That’s_ how these things go. 

_That’s_ how it’d gone the one other time he’d gotten greedy, and decided to try for more than he had already, with someone completely inappropriate. With the memory of how that had all ended Gintoki had really thought the lesson might have stuck, but apparently not. He’d have thought Zura, at least, might have understood where he was coming from, since he’d been there for the whole thing – but then, Zura, like the blithering idiot he is, had actually forgiven him for everything that had happened back then, from Takasugi to Sensei to everything else. 

Better to get out now, while the going is still – somewhat – good. 

Yeah – it’s better for everyone that Hijikata came to his senses and they’ve gone their separate ways before things could get out of hand, and everything blew up in one or both of their faces in the worst possible way. Hell, Hijikata is apparently more efficient than ever at his job now, so it’s win-win for him, really.

Good thing that Gintoki’d gone and beat up those yakuza, then. It’d been a masterstroke on his part, if he does say so himself – what better way to piss off a hypertensive control freak than to go and horn in on his job and flush several months’ work down the drain? As far as his ‘make Hijikata break up with me’ plans had gone, that had definitely been one of the more inspired, and he’d come up with it within five minutes of heading off towards the docks. Sure, he’d already been heading towards the docks with the intention of beating up some yakuza anyway, and he guesses he must’ve had some other reason to be doing that in the first place, but that reason is locked securely away in his giant mental box labelled ‘Do Not Open’, and, well, why would he disobey the giant mental box?

… Fuck, this is all too much for this time of morning. Gin-san needs sleep – and food, and water, and probably an IV drip – but he _wants_ to not have to think about anything ever again. And he can’t stay here, with the memories and the reminders and the diorama, so that means that he has to go elsewhere. If he can get drunk enough, then he won’t have to enjoy the dubious pleasure of even his own company, and that sounds pretty good right now.

“I’m going for a piss,” he calls out. Zura and Kagura ignore him, enthralled in their garbage TV as they are, and Shinpachi’s _that’s great, Gin-san_ sounds decidedly unenthused.

Gintoki staggers his way out of the living room and towards the toilet; once he gets there, he slips his feet into the toilet slippers and then keeps on staggering until he reaches the window.

He’s not going to attempt to take the stairs while this hungover. Gin-san’s not an idiot!

With a bit of work, he manages to jimmy the window open, and then he just scramble-crawls his way up and through, contorting and clawing until he finds himself dangling from the other side. He squints down at the jutting pipes and who-knows-what below him, and tries to calculate the height – he’s further up than he realised. He makes a mental note to let Otose know about this the next time he sees her: this exit is definitely a hazard, and someone could do themselves an injury if they’re not careful. She should install some signage.

In the end, he just goes ‘fuck it’ and lets himself fall – it’s not one of his better landings, but he’s all in one piece, so he’ll give it a pass. He lies there on the ground for a minute and collects his breath, before hauling himself to his feet with great dignity.

He’ll go get a drink or ten, somewhere far, far away from here. He’ll forget about all of this. And he’ll definitely abstain from any kind of self-interrogation. That kind of shit is for jerks and losers, and Gin-san is neither of those things.

He even manages to only stagger a little bit as he rounds the corner of the house and makes his way out into the street; the sunlight burns his eyes, and the greasy layer of sweat that coats his skin probably smells none too fresh, but neither of these things are any of his concern. If other people are offended by his aroma, then that sounds like a them problem.

_A bar. I need to find a bar._

With this clear goal in mind, he lurches off down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ketsuno Ana/Tomoe-chan is our new OTP <3
> 
> Thank you to Pendule for giving us an inspiring comment about them :D


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey, Toshi! Long time no see!”

The heavy _thud_ of Kondou’s arm falling across his shoulder is both familiar and expected, but, for once, not entirely welcome. Hijikata winces a little at its weight, knowing that it will inexorably steer him in the direction that its owner dictates, whether Hijikata wants to go there or not. And at the moment, it’s just a big _not_ – Kondou could be leading him towards some sort of Shangri-La where mayonnaise erupts from the fountains and tobacco forms the main source of combustible fuel, and he would still rather not go.

It’s not a problem with Kondou, of course. It’s a problem with _everyone,_ himself and that shitty terrorist fucker he used to know included. He can’t be in literally anyone’s company right now – even his own – and so he’s been on a three-day bender of the Jouishishi-kicking variety, with a couple of hours put aside here and there to drop into an exhausted sleep.

It’s been almost enough to keep the worst of the mental images at bay – those fucked-up flickering fantasies where sometimes he’s watching as an outsider as the two of _them_ go at it, and sometimes he’s watching Takasugi get off through Gintoki’s eyes, and sometimes he’s Takasugi looking at Gintoki. These last ones are the worst – obviously because the thought of being Takasugi is frigging appalling, but also because they’re by far the most detailed. Hijikata _knows_ what Gintoki looks like as he comes, knows what he feels like, and he doesn’t want to remember a single thing about that. He certainly doesn’t want to remember it from the point of view of an asshole like Takasugi, giving Gintoki the bedroom eye and saying dumb bullshit about how he’s going to destroy everything, to which Gintoki leers and says _I hope you’re including my ass in that,_ and okay, maybe his thoughts keep running away from him and getting way too detailed, but that’s exactly why he’s been trying to keep his brain occupied with kicking the ass of any Joui he can lay his hands on, dammit –

“Ah, Toshi, you’re always so busy in there! Thinking, thinking!” Kondou raps cheerfully at Hijikata’s forehead to emphasise his point, his laughter rising above the hum of the bustling crowd, and Hijikata wishes – not for the first time – that he could be more like that. Nothing ever gets Kondou down for more than five minutes. It seems like it would be a nice way to live, but he just can’t.

He has nothing to say in reply to Kondou, but it doesn’t matter – Kondou has more than enough words for both of them.

“You’ve been working too hard lately, Toshi! Come and have a drink with me.” Kondou’s arm around his shoulder gets a little tighter. “That’s an order.”

Hijikata shakes his head, even as he finds himself being gently but firmly manoeuvred into a new trajectory, their target obviously the dingy izakaya across the street.

“I’m still on duty, Kondou-san,” he says, though he knows if Kondou is truly determined to get him to go with him, then something as minor as not drinking on duty isn’t going to be much in the way of a deterrent. 

True to form, Kondou just blinks at him and doesn’t slow his pace for even a moment as he barges heedlessly through the crowd, like a particularly hairy juggernaut. “Toshi, your shift finished four hours ago. Or twenty-eight hours ago, since you never actually stopped your previous shift.”

_… Huh._

Well, that _would_ explain why the sky is dark and the streetlights are on.

Okay, well, that’s one excuse down, not that Hijikata thought it was going to be a particularly effective one to begin with. Gritting his teeth, he tries again.

“Kondou-san, doesn’t that mean your shift starts in an hour? You can’t just –”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry!” Kondou practically shoves him through the door. “I’ll just have one little drink, it’s fine. But _you_ need to relax and have a proper meal, Toshi. It’s all on me.”

… Okay, so he could probably use something to eat, Hijikata thinks as he grudgingly takes a seat at the bar. And a drink sounds good. Maybe it’ll help clear his mind of the bullshit that just keeps cycling through it – but _ugh,_ no, no such luck apparently, because by some horrible coincidence this izakaya happens to be the very same izakaya Gintoki had waltzed into a little over two months ago while Hijikata had been doing nothing but minding his own business, and he’d got up to leave, and Yorozuya had told him to stay, and then he’d given him the Tomoe 5000 figurine Sougo had sullied with his grimy little sideline, and Hijikata had been _just_ impressed enough and _just_ drunk enough to think that _maybe_ he wasn’t about to make the worst decision of his life when he –

_Ugh._

He shakes his head to clear it as Kondou orders for both of them, chatting away with the owner as Hijikata stares at the worn wood of the bar and tries not to think. Maybe the worst part of all of this is that he’d never actually gotten around to taking Tomoe-chan back with him from Yorozuya’s place; at some point, he’d realised that he’d gotten into the habit of thinking that he’d pick her up next time – which had, of course, implied that there’d _be_ a next time, which, of course, there always had been. At least until now, anyway, and now he’ll look like a fucking idiot when he has to go ’round to Yorozuya’s filthy lair at some point and ask for his stuff back, at which point it really _will_ be all over between them. 

_Ah, shit._ Maybe he can just send Yamazaki. 

A beer appears before him as if by some sort of divine magic, and he downs half the glass before his mind can catch up with him. He doesn’t want to think about any of this. At all. Ever. And yet, it’s the only thing that his brain seems to be capable of doing, swinging wildly between _I never want to see that fucker again_ and _that time I blew him under the desk and he pretended to get a phone call_ was _pretty funny, though_ and _maybe I could’ve dealt with it if he just hadn’t been such a colossal ass about it_ and _does this mean that Takasugi and I have indirect kissed_ and _seppuku is always an option_ and _I miss that stupid bastard’s smile_. He’s contemplated all of these things countless times, and he’s still no closer to finding an answer for any of them. If anything, he just has more questions.

He’s desperate. He needs something else to think about. _Anything_.

He slides his aching eyes to the side, where Kondou is leaning against the bar, happily swallowing down a beer like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And he probably doesn’t. Does he? It’s so hard to know. Kondou wears his heart on his sleeve, but that just means that if he _did_ choose to hide away his true feelings on something, no one would ever suspect.

_Shit, this is all too difficult._

He turns his gaze downwards. Looks like Kondou’s wearing pants tonight, which – okay, it _should_ be a given, but he’s learnt never to take it for granted. The whole KonIsaoing thing seems to have died down over the past month or so, but he could be completely wrong about that – he’s avoided the subject with a vengeance by always changing the topic whenever Kondou brings it up. It’s not something he wants to know about.

But now, he thinks, it might just be stupid enough to shunt his speeding mind from its singular track. He’s actually at the point where he thinks he could stand to listen to it, and maybe even pick up some advice about how to get rid of the junk that’s cluttering his life. If nothing else, Kondou will probably be pleased to have an opportunity to talk about it, and at least that means that one of them will be happy.

“So,” he says, after he downs the rest of his beer and signals to the barman for another, “how’s the whole… KonIsaoing thing going?”

Kondou laughs ruefully, though Hijikata thinks he can see some genuine regret on his face. “You know how these things go, Toshi. One minute you’re in, the next you’re out. But it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it? Even if you never did come to one of Tamo-san’s parties with me.”

Hijikata looks down at the katsudon that’s appeared in front of him, along with another beer – no, he never had gone to one of the filthy celebrity parties Kondou had been getting invited to during his apparently all-too-brief period in the sun, mainly because he’d been spending literally any free time he had at Yorozuya’s place, or at a love hotel with Yorozuya, or, one particularly ill-advised time, in the sand trap by the 17th hole of the Kita Ace Golf Course… which had been cut short anyway after Gintoki had made a fucking stupid joke about getting a hole in one, which Hijikata had had to yell at him for, except that he’d kept laughing and ruining it.

_Fuck._

He picks up the katsudon and begins shovelling it into his face; vaguely, he registers Kondou’s somewhat concerned expression from the corner of his eye, but look, he’s eating, isn’t he? He’s sitting with Kondou in an izakaya and eating, and the sooner he finishes his food the sooner he can go, so he doesn’t really know what else Kondou expects of him. It’s not like they ever, ugh, _talked_ about anything to do with Yorozuya or anything like that – one of the good things about Kondou is that while he can’t seem to shut the fuck up about his _own_ love life or lack thereof, he has never broached the subject of Hijikata’s, despite the fact he undoubtedly knows what’s been going on. 

“So. Toshi.” Kondou clears his throat. “Anything bothering you lately?” 

Maybe choking to death on a barely chewed piece of katsu is the best way to escape this whole shitty Yorozuya situation. It’s certainly the most readily available solution, although a few solid whacks to the back from Kondou quickly remove it from the list of possibilities.

_Dammit._

He takes advantage of the long moments spent gasping and wheezing to try and get his mind into gear, but it’s mostly busy concentrating on stupid stuff like _I need air_ and _that really hurt,_ and then it’s just noticing that Kondou has his ‘I’m concerned’ face on, and ah, fuck it all.

He waves a hand dismissively, trying to subdue the oncoming coughing fit by drowning it in beer, and does his best not to think about how genuine Kondou’s concern is. Because it’s always genuine. It’s one of the reasons why he and the rest of the Shinsengumi will follow him to the ends of the earth, no matter what kind of dumb shit he otherwise says.

It’s just that there’s only one other person who ever looks at him with that kind of concern. Sure, it’s usually covered up with some kind of leer, or stupid comment, or demonstration of complete disregard for personal hygiene, but the concern is _there_. Or it was, anyway. He’s sure of it.

Though maybe not, since apparently Yorozuya had decided to throw it away on some mysterious whim, like none of it had meant anything to him at all. The whole Takasugi thing didn’t _have_ to end it. Sure, he’s pissed off, and he still doesn’t quite feel like he’s been able to scrub himself clean, and sure, this opens him up to some pretty uncomfortable lines of questioning… but, well, he’s sure he would’ve been able to get over it. Eventually. Probably. But Gintoki had seemed pretty fucking determined to make sure it stuck, for whatever asshole reason of his own. 

Whatever the case, he can’t just forget about it and go back to the way things were. All the stuff he’d had to admit about himself since he started up with Gintoki isn’t just going to go back to the places he’d successfully repressed it to. Not the fact that he’s interested in guys – that’s always been there, no big deal – but that he’d be interested in _this_ guy in particular. That he might want to do something other than blow off steam. There’d always been a divide between the two in his mind – he’d always been attracted to women for their softness, and men for their hardness – but now he feels like a line has been crossed.

Gintoki has wormed his way into the apple that is his life, and has eaten away at him from the inside. Or something. He’s never been good with metaphors, and he is far from his best right now.

… Maybe that asshole went and rubbed a magnet all over Hijikata’s brain while he wasn’t looking. It’s the only thing he can think of to explain why all of his thoughts are so constantly, completely, inexorably dragged back to fucking Yorozuya. It’s unstoppable. He can’t fight it.

He lets his head fall into his hands with a long, pained sigh that Kondou definitely couldn’t’ve missed, but which he is, thankfully, too tactful to comment on for once.

He can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep trying to push this bullshit to the back of his mind. He’s going to have to… ugh… _talk it out_.

Hijikata clears his throat. He senses Kondou perking up expectantly, and _God_ this is going to suck absolute fucking balls.

“Kondou-san,” he mumbles, half-hoping Kondou won’t actually be able to hear a word he’s saying. Still. Better to frame this in words Kondou will be able to wrap his head around. “If you found out that the – the girl you –” _lov–_ no, no, absolutely not – _that you lik–_ ugh, no, fuck, shit – _that you had some weird thing with where you fuck all the time but don’t talk about what it means ever even though sometimes you think you’d like to,_ ugh, what the _fuck,_ “– that you were seeing sometimes… if you found out that she used to sleep with –” _Fuck,_ this is worse than he’d thought. Who the hell is a Takasugi equivalent for Kondou? “– if you found out she used to sleep with that shitty fucking prick Sasaki or someone… what would you do about it?”

He can feel his ears burning hotter and hotter the longer his idiotic stop-start speech continues, and there’s absolutely _no fucking way_ he can look up at Kondou to gauge his reaction to any of this – still, he can sense it when Kondou sits up a little straighter in his seat, maybe stiffening at the suggestion that he could ever be interested in anyone who wasn’t Otae. Who definitely hasn’t slept with Sasaki. Probably. 

“What would I do?” Kondou says several excruciating seconds later, and Hijikata risks peeping up over his fingers to see Kondou looking down at him in a particularly beatific way, his eyes shining with benevolence. “I would love her, sordid sexual history and all.” 

Hijikata stares at him, feeling his heart turn over in his chest a little – but then, of _course_ Kondou would say that. Kondou can’t help but see the best in everyone. It’s just what he’s like – obviously, otherwise he never would have bothered picking Hijikata’s scrawny almost-carcass up off the ground all those years ago – so his opinion on this isn’t really to be trusted. 

“People aren’t the worst thing they’ve ever done, are they, Toshi? Or the stupidest? Or the thing they thought was a good idea at the time, and then it turned out not to be? And they’re not their pasts or what they might turn out to be in their futures. They’re only what they mean to us now. Isn’t that right?” 

Kondou leans in slightly, eyes intent, and Hijikata does his level best not to back away and probably slide right off the bar stool in the process. 

“People make all sorts of inexplicable choices, don’t they, Toshi? For all sorts of bizarre reasons that the rest of us don’t understand, but we usually decide to trust that they’re right – except sometimes they’re _not_ right, and that’s when friends need to step up and put things in order.”

Hijikata really, really wishes he hadn’t gutsed down that katsudon quite so quickly, because he’s definitely feeling kind of queasy now. 

He’d known Gintoki came with a past – that much was pretty frigging obvious from day fucking one. But he hadn’t been the one who’d wanted to break up over it! That had been Gintoki! Gintoki had been the one spewing all that garbage from virtually the moment he stepped in the door! _Gintoki_ had been the one who’d blabbed all that shit about being the Shiroyasha and said Hijikata shouldn’t get mixed up with him, as if he wasn’t in it neck-deep already! _Gintoki_ had been the one who –

“What I’m saying is that people sometimes make decisions _for_ us, and they’re not always the ones we’d make for ourselves.” 

Kondou pushes Hijikata’s beer towards him encouragingly, but Hijikata doesn’t think he could drink it now even if he wanted to, since his stomach feels like it’s just turned itself inside out and decided to start trying to crawl up his throat as it suddenly becomes horribly, painfully obvious to him that Kondou’s not talking about Gintoki anymore.

One day, Hijikata is going to figure out how Kondou is simultaneously in constant need of adult supervision while also coming out with things like this; right now, he’s too busy trying to keep his barely digested katsudon where it belongs.

 _Is that actually it, though? Is Yorozuya actually that big of a fucking idiot?_

Still, Hijikata’s clearly the biggest idiot of all, given that he’d committed the even more spectacularly stupid act of falling for Sakata Gintoki. 

Yeah, that was singularly idiotic on his part. 

Maybe the universe really is trying to teach him a lesson for how he’d treated Mitsuba. Or maybe it’s just some kind of giant cosmic joke – he can finally start to move on from the sweet, gentle girl whose ghost had haunted him even while she was still alive, but only if he promptly falls for a slack-faced former terrorist who thinks that snot is part of a balanced diet. Who then decides to go and do the same thing to him as he’d done to her. 

Well. Maybe. If what Kondou is saying is to be believed, anyway. 

“It’s not the same,” he mumbles, his voice catching on all the particles of katsu and grains of rice that’ve become lodged in his throat over the past few minutes. Of course it isn’t. What he’d done to Mitsuba – however stupid a decision he now realises it was – that had been… that had been because…. 

Hijikata stares down at the bar, and geeze, is this in fact the same exact spot as the one where Gintoki had slammed Tomoe-chan down, called him a miserable prick, and told him to take her as some kind of stupid fucking peace offering for all the horrible weeks that had preceded it? It’d worked, too. _Obviously,_ since he’d stuck his tongue down Yorozuya’s throat about an hour and a half later.

“Isn’t it?” Kondou lifts his beer again. “Ah, well. I suppose you’re the best judge of that, Toshi.” 

Swallowing, Hijikata looks down at his fingers, pressed into the wooden bar. He’s tried extremely hard to never think about what he might have done if Mitsuba had come after him down that dirt road to Edo, or if he, even once, had turned his head to look back at her. It would be pointless, since neither of those things had happened, and so he’ll never know. 

“I just thought I should say something, since one thing I know is that I’ve never regretted any of the beatings I’ve endured for the sake of love – the only things I regret are the times I’ve stood aside when I should have spoken up,” Kondou continues after a moment, putting his empty beer glass down on the bar. 

_Shit._

His thoughts are a whirling mess, but somewhere in amongst it all is the knowledge that Kondou is right. Not about the beatings he’s endured for the sake of love – Hijikata’s pretty sure that at least ninety-five per cent of those were entirely justified, and a bit of regret on Kondou’s part would solve a lot of the Shinsengumi’s problems – but in general.

_You’d think you would’ve fucking learned by now, idiot._

He’s had enough of his own regrets in his life. Things that he’s kicked himself over for _years,_ even as he’s tried to justify them – or, failing that, repress the hell out of them. And yet, now that he’s been presented with a second chance, he’s just gone and done the same dumb bullshit as always.

That’s it. He can’t promise that he won’t punch that dumb fucker in the face, but he’s going to find Gintoki, and he’s going to do… something. Like hell he’s going to let that asshole get the last word! 

He throws back the last of his beer. 

“I gotta go, Kondou-san. There’s something I need to do.”

Hijikata hurries towards the door as he attempts to jam his arm through the inside-out sleeve of his jacket. It’s all well and good to have a plan – of sorts – but where the hell should he go?! Gintoki could be literally anywhere, and like hell the idiot would take his calls right now. Anyway, he wants to look that moron in the eye when he tells him that he’s ruined his life, and he’d appreciate it if he stuck around to keep ruining it.

“Ah – Toshi!” Kondou’s voice calls out from somewhere behind him. “Can I finish your katsudon? I have a late Uno game tonight, and I won’t get time for dinner!”

“Sure, whatever,” Hijikata throws back over his shoulder without paying attention to whatever it was that Kondou just said, before he yanks open the izakaya’s door and runs out into the night.

He looks up and down the street, a jittery energy coursing through him, telling him to go somewhere, _anywhere,_ before he loses his nerve.

… Well, there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance that the lazy bastard is at home. And if he’s not, then there’ll probably be someone around there who can tell him where he’s got to. Even if it’s the scary old hag downstairs. 

He moves down the street at a run, dodging too-slow pedestrians and possibly delivering the occasional swift elbow… but dammit, anyone who makes the terrible life choice to walk three abreast deserves whatever’s coming to them.

“Vice-Chief! Come in!”

His radio sputters to life in his pocket, and he curses under his breath… but work is work, even if he’s not on duty.

He’s only a little out of breath when he answers. “Yamazaki, unless you’re literally on fire right now, I don’t want to hear about it.” He pauses for a moment to yell at a driver who has the absolute fucking _gall_ to almost run him over while he’s jaywalking, before picking up where he left off. “And if you are, call Harada, since he’s actually on duty.”

The silence on the other end goes on for long enough that he starts to think that Yamazaki has just abandoned his radio entirely, but then there’s something that sounds like _You are afloat in a calm, blue lake. Nothing bothers you here. The sun is warm on your skin, and as you float here, calm, content, a wave of serenity washes through you –_

“YAMAZAKI!” If that little pissant were here, he’d jam the radio right down his throat. “You have three seconds to tell me what the hell it is that you want, or else you really _will_ find yourself in a fucking lake.”

“Vice-Chief, I….” There’s a pause, before Yamazaki obviously comes to some sort of decision. “Something terrible is happening.”

Hijikata bites back half a dozen satisfying but unhelpful responses, because it’s possible, he supposes, that Yamazaki is informing him of an actual emergency that doesn’t revolve around the Shinsengumi’s dwindling anpan stocks. “Spit it out, Yamazaki.”

“It’s danna, Vice-Chief.”

He finds that, for possibly the first time ever, Yamazaki has his full, undivided attention. His mouth is suddenly inexplicably dry. “And?!”

“He’s, ah, having a pretty one-sided fight with some yakuza.”

Something very much like relief surges through him, and he slows to a walk, before stopping altogether, leaning back against a wall. “Well, that’s nothing new, is it? That bastard can take care of himself.”

Sure, it’s just one more instance of Yorozuya going and interfering where he shouldn’t, but given the worry that he’d heard in Yamazaki’s voice, he’d thought that Yorozuya might be in danger or something.

“No, Vice-Chief, you don’t understand!” Yamazaki’s voice pitches even higher than usual. “It’s not one-sided like _that._ Danna, he’s – he’s getting the stuffing knocked out of him. I think he might be drunk.” A pause. “ _Extremely_ drunk.”

Yamazaki’s still saying stuff, but Hijikata’s not really taking it in. Whatever it is, he cuts it off with the only thing he actually needs to know. “Where the hell is he?”

“He’s down at the river by Yodobashi.”

Hijikata’s sprinting towards the river before the words have even finished coming out of Yamazaki’s mouth. It’s not far from here, and he puts everything he has into going as fast as possible, dodging and weaving, barely registering the _Thank you for your assistance, Yamazaki, you’re a great help – and how’s your wrist, by the way?_ that crackles through his forgotten radio.

No way in hell is he going to let some lousy yakuza beat up Yorozuya! That’s a privilege that’s reserved for Hijikata alone. 

His lungs burn as he pounds down the street, his knees protesting with each thudding step, but he barely notices. He doesn’t notice a whole lot in general, except that which stands in the way of him getting where he needs to go as quickly as is humanly possible. People, bicycles, trucks – none of these things matter as much as making it to the dumb bastard before he ends up smeared on the footpath.

Memories flitter through his mind – other places, other times. Shinsengumi business, official or un-. The prospect of near-certain death. And always, always, just as things would seem at their worst, that everything was lost – that flash of white yukata, that ridiculous silver hair. He doesn’t know how that asshole always seems to know just the right moment to show up and save everyone, but, well, Hijikata figures he probably owes him one.

The damp smell of the river tickles his nostrils, and the sounds of a commotion ring out from up ahead – he’s definitely close. He reaches for his katana, fingers tightening.

He’s going to rescue that dickhead, and then he’s going to hit him a few times, and then he’s going to tell him that he won’t be gotten rid of so easily.

And then… well, he’ll just have to wait and see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late! This chapter is a bit of a longy :|

The first step of knowing you’re going to get the shit kicked out of you is accepting that it’s going to hurt – Gintoki got over _that_ long ago. Knowing and accepting that it’s going to hurt are just all part of the deal. He doesn’t mind that part of it so much.

No, the thing Gintoki _minds_ about getting the shit kicked out of him is that it’s really fucking embarrassing. Especially when the shit-kicking is being carried out by a bunch of nameless idiot goons. And not even top-tier goons! These goons are third-rate at best. He already took out the less shit ones when he went on his little Hijikata-inspired rampage, and now he’s down to the dregs. Usually it’d be laughably, pathetically easy for him to take them out. Disaffected yakuza should be a piece of piss. 

Unfortunately for him, he is very, _very_ drunk. And also not feeling particularly inspired to give it his all. Getting beaten to an unconscious pulp is sounding pretty good right now, in fact – since attempting to drink his way to oblivion obviously didn’t work, maybe he can just get punched there instead.

He _is_ with it enough to put together a few things: namely that these guys who’ve apparently been sneaking around with the Harusame behind Katsuo’s back like a bunch of lousy two-timers are a bit pissed off with him for that whole thing where he beat their buddies up and threw their drugs into the harbour. Beyond that, is there really anything he needs to know?

 _Probably not,_ he decides, as he slides down to the ground for a nice, well-deserved break. The kicks to his sides take up a lovely kind of soothing rhythm, and he lets it lull him, his eyes slipping closed. Now _would_ be a good time for a nap. He’s been up all day! Possibly several days! If he can fall asleep now, then maybe he’ll even miss out on the worst of the hangover.

The thought of hangovers knocks something loose in his mind, and his brain scrabbles to remember – was he hungover recently? Something to do with Katsura and rectal damage?

… No, that’s stupid. Besides, these days when he’s hungover, it’s usually the aftermath of a long night of drinking and screwing with –

_… Oh, right._

Well, okay, it’s probably not that this time. On the bright side, now he remembers why he drank until his brain decided to leak out of his ears.

He slaps irritably at a sandal that’s attempting to kick him in the face and tries to think. Or not think. Because he did it, didn’t he? He achieved the goal he set out to achieve – and with flying colours, no less. Gold star to Gin-san! He really did do a bang-up job of getting Hijikata to fuck off and not talk to him ever again, never mind let Gintoki stick it in his various bits.

Now they can go back to sneering and bitching whenever they inevitably run into each other, but this time without the surprise boners, which were really fucking inconvenient. And if his little jaunt down to the docks had the side effect of making sure that the stupid bastard was safe from further retribution while he recovered, then all the better –

Gintoki’s eyes slowly crack open to bleary slits, just in time to see a none-too-clean foot coming towards his head. He’s not worried – he’s survived worse – but he doesn’t _need_ a kick in the head, per se. Otose might have said otherwise on multiple occasions, but what the hell would she know?

… What had he been thinking before he was so rudely interrupted? Protecting that dumb arsehole from yakuza retaliation? Hah, as if he would do something so stupid. Sure, he would do that kind of thing for Kagura or Shinpachi in a heartbeat, but they’re different. They’re _kids_. And he’d do it for the old hag, but she’s, well, _old_. Obviously. That sour-faced jerk with the ridiculous hair? As if Gin-san would go out of his way for _him!_

His breath stutters in his chest, and he winces. Of course _now_ the warm, numbing glow of the alcohol is wearing off just enough for him to feel every kick to the ribs he’s taken over the past however many minutes this has been going on. The goons are yelling something jeeringly, but he can’t make out the words above the ringing in his ears; not that it matters, since those types never have anything entertaining to say.

He _does_ appear to be opening his own mouth, though. Is it just to spit out blood? Oh, no, apparently there’re words coming out too. “That all you got?” 

Hmm. Sage words of wisdom that absolutely _had_ to be shared with the class those probably were not, Gintoki reflects as another kick sends his head ricocheting back against the concrete riverbank behind him. 

This definitely hasn’t been one of his better evenings. In fact, he thinks he’s ready to call it a night now and head home.

He holds up his hands weakly and gives the yakuza thugs his best charming grin, while attempting to unobtrusively shuffle his legs underneath him so that he can spring to his feet, gazelle-like, when the moment is right.

“All right, all right. This has been lovely – you’re all a bunch of charmers, a credit to your mothers, assuming you know who they are – but let’s not have too much of a good thing, shall we? Time for me to go home, and time for you to go… back wherever you came from.” 

And okay, maybe the sudden cool, precise pressure of a blade at his throat is an indicator that the moment may not yet be quite right. He eases back on his heels and contemplates whether he would be better off barfing on their feet now, or if he should keep that particular ace up his sleeve for later.

The idiots are running their mouths again, and he does his best to tune in and take note of what they’re saying, even though he really doesn’t give a crap.

“… believe _this_ asshole took out our guys. Look at him! He’s not even trying! And why the fuck is he wearing toilet slippers over his boots?!”

A different voice: “Are you sure we got the right guy?”

He tunes back out again until they actually ask him a direct question that he feels he can dignify with a response. The fact that the question is accompanied by a noticeable increase in pressure against his throat probably doesn’t hurt, either.

“What the fuck did you throw all our product in the water for, huh? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Oi!” Gintoki sputters out. The nerve of these bastards! Whose side do they think he’s on?! Sure, he’s not _on_ their side, but he’s not _not_ on their side, either. “I was _helping,_ dammit! The fuzz were going to rock up any minute and confiscate your little shipment, so Gin-san stepped in and saved your worthless hides. There’s no fingerprints at the bottom of the ocean!”

But the bozo just keeps on running his mouth, apparently oblivious to the enlightenment that Gin-san has just shone down upon him. “Do you know how much that shit was worth? Eh? Eh? Do you know how much money we lost on that deal? How do you suggest we recoup the loss? Maybe we should cut off a body part every day and mail it to your Shinsengumi husbando until he coughs up a ransom. How d’ya feel about that, wiseguy? Which part of you d’ya think he’d like first?”

His stomach spasms weirdly for a moment – makes sense, given the number of hits he’s taken – but he shakes it off, his laughter bouncing off the concrete.

“Ha! Good luck getting money out of that tightarse! If you’re going to try the Shinsengumi, aim for the gorilla or the sadist – at least they kind of like me.”

_And wait – who said anything about that jackoff being the husbando? He’s clearly the waifu! Just because he has a job, and an income, and reliable electricity and running water…._

One of the other goons leans in close, and yowza, someone needs to brush his teeth. Maybe Okita can pay his ransom in Mintias. Gintoki knows for a fact the little prick has at least half a packet of them, even if they _are_ umeboshi flavoured.

The yakuza grabs Gintoki’s wrist and runs the edge of his dagger oh-so-gently along the back of his hand.

“Yeah, nah, that doesn’t sound like much fun. I think we’ll start with the pinky, and work our way up from there. One bit a day. After the fingers and the toes… well, there are only so many other things we can cut off.” 

Cold sweat breaks out on Gintoki’s neck. His toes, he can live without – he can even do without his fingers in a pinch – but his other protuberances… well, that’s a bridge too far. Hasn’t his dick suffered enough?!

Good thing that they broke up – Hijikata probably would’ve been at least a little put out if he’d been receiving Gin-san’s various bits and bobs in the mail like the world’s worst advent calendar while the two of them had still been doing it, but now he can just chuck them in with the other combustibles without a second thought. Even his dick. Maybe _especially_ his dick. 

But still, there _is_ a limit to what Gin-san will put up with, and he’s been trying graciously to not outstay his welcome for the past few minutes. Obviously, he’s going to have to dispense with the idea of being polite and subtle and just get up and leave. 

The crunch as he slams his fist into the jaw of the guy who’d been menacing him with a knife is particularly satisfying; so is the yell of surprise when he kicks the guy backwards into some of his friends, knocking most of them over. His next few swings are wild and unfocused, but then he starts to get a bit of a rhythm going – his feet are at least somewhat steady beneath him, and his eyes clear up enough so that he’s not seeing double anymore, which has the nice side effect of bringing him to the realisation that there are half as many goons here as he initially thought. He even manages to dodge a series of blows without breaking much of a sweat or tripping over his own feet, which seems like a plus.

_Okay, this is more like it._

Despite the fact that he currently feels like deep-fried ass on the physical, mental, and emotional planes, his face cracks into a triumphant grin. Gin-san and his dick are both going to make it out of here in one piece, and it looks like he’s even going to get to keep his fingers into the bargain. Which is good, because he’s probably going to need them if he wants to get off again at any point in the foreseeable future. He’s flexible, but he’s not _that_ flexible.

One of the yakuza swings his leg up in an ill-advised kick, leaving himself wide open. Gintoki may have some scruples – he’s not sure what or where they are, but they _do_ exist – but the idiot is offering himself up on a platter, and it would be downright stupid of him to not take advantage of the opportunity.

He drives his elbow into the guy’s junk, wincing a little at the resultant shriek, and rolls ungracefully to the side as the goon topples to the ground. Like he’s got room to complain! It only seems fair – more than fair, even. This jerk had been threatening to permanently unplug Gin-san’s joystick, so he should consider himself damn lucky that he’s escaped with only a little over-enthusiastic button-mashing.

This fighting is all well and good, but he supposes that he should probably get out of here at some point. His blood is still at least fifty per cent ethanol, and if someone gets the bright idea of lighting up near him, he’s a goner for sure.

Gintoki does a quick bit of mental arithmetic, ably aided by his fingers. He comes to the conclusion that there are seven guys to one side of him and three to the other, all of them hovering anxiously just out of his reach, clearly not keen to suffer the same sad testicular fate as their friend. He can make out Lake Touya tucked into the obi of a yakuza who’s hanging near the back of the larger group. The arsehole’s filthy fingers are hovering way too close to the handle, and okay, Gintoki knows which route he’s taking. 

He staggers forward with a belligerent yell, finding it _way_ too hard to keep his balance – who the _fuck_ put these toilet slippers on over his boots?! – only to find such a sudden burst of movement was a little ill-advised, and now he’s – oh _God,_ is he actually going to –

His gut roils ominously, but its warning comes too late. Gintoki tries to clamp a hand over his mouth, but it does no good – nothing can hold back the waterfall of vomit that suddenly issues forth from the lowest levels of his stomach with a shocking amount of force, leaving him retching and weak at the knees. He feels like maybe he should ask for a time out or something – surely, spewing in the middle of a fight is reasonable grounds for a time out? 

He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is yet more vomit from his seemingly inexhaustible supply; he doesn’t remember how much he’s had to drink, but it must be truly spectacular.

There are screams ringing in his ears – _fucking hell_ and _Is this guy for real?_ and _Those were my new sandals!_ – but everyone seems to be too preoccupied with the contents of his stomach to actually skewer him, so he’ll take that as a win.

He grabs onto the yukata of one of the goons and ignores his confused shout as he hauls himself up, hand over agonised hand, fists bunched in the fabric of the other man’s clothes, until he finally, painfully, manages to get himself upright. More or less.

Gintoki stares into his eyes, which are wide with confusion; he can feel the idiot trembling with fear beneath his hands. Or maybe it’s just revulsion – Gintoki can admit, at least to himself, that he could probably stand to be a bit fresher.

“What’re you looking at, huh?” he yells. The yelling is accompanied by a cracking headbutt, and the thug sinks to his knees.

_Fuck. Ow._

Gintoki grabs at his forehead as sparkles dance in front of his eyes. Probably wasn’t the best move, but, well, no use crying over spilt milk. The boring, unflavoured kind, anyway. He has previously cried and will again cry over the strawberry stuff, but –

It’s not really all that surprising when he feels the points of two – no, make that three – blades exerting a gentle but firm pressure on his back. One of them is perilously close to his butt, which just seems uncalled for.

Some of the other yakuza are circling around in front of him, and okay, this is less than great.

“Ah, gentlemen.” He laughs brightly, but the humourless pricks surrounding him don’t crack a smile. “Well, it looks like we’re at a bit of an impasse. What say you we negotiate, eh? I know I’m at a bit of an unfair advantage and all, but Gin-san is nothing if not magnanimous.”

He finds himself slammed back against the concrete side of the riverbed for the second time today, and it’s not any more fun than the first time. He’d even go so far as to say it’s worse.

The swordpoints are at his throat now, and really, they’re the only thing keeping him upright. He could absolutely go for a nap right now, but no, these inconsiderate bastards just had to go waving sharp blades in his face and smashing his head into walls. Fucking rude.

He wavers briefly, not sure what to say or do, and it takes him a moment to realise that this is the point where someone else would normally jump in to save the day. Not that he needs it – not that he’s ever needed it – but still, he has to admit, to himself if no one else, that it’s nice having backup. It’s been a while since he fought without someone by his side, and he can’t say he’s a fan of doing everything on his own. If nothing else, it sucks having no one around to appreciate his sterling wit.

The sudden warm trickle of blood on his neck is intimately familiar, and ah, okay, things have maybe got a little out of hand. It’s only the slightest amount, but he can feel the oh-so-gentle increase of the blade’s pressure. This has the potential to get very ugly very quickly, and he’s maybe feeling a bit of regret about his choice of technique. Okay, noted – spewjitsu is not working out. Anyway, how was he to know that a bit of puke would literally turn these guys murderous? Maybe he should take a dump, spice things up a little. Couldn’t make his situation much worse.

His eyes dart about in search of an opening, but he’s effectively pinned against the wall. The arsehole who has his bokutou is still maddeningly out of reach, hanging back behind the others. Gintoki has blood in his eyes, his legs are about to give out on him, and he’s pretty sure his head is going to split in two.

He is, for lack of a better word, fucked.

Not that he’s not going to go down swinging, of course. And he’s sure there’s a way out of this – there’s always a way out. It’s just that he’s cutting it a bit finer that he’s comfortable with, and against enemies who are really a level or two below his pay grade.

Gintoki braces himself against the wall, tension building in his muscles. The idiots are crowded around him, which means that they’re within kicking range – if he can lash out quick enough with just his legs, he might be able to get a couple of them in the goolies before they drive home their blades. Sure, it’s unimaginative and repetitive on his part, but it’s not like he has much choice! It’s either that or seduction, and these guys have shown themselves to be surprisingly resistant to Gin-san’s innumerable charms.

It occurs to him that he has had multiple chances to loot weapons off his fallen foes – but he and Lake Touya are a team, and the thought of betraying it with some other floozy of a sword is unconscionable. He’ll never forget the time that it sacrificed itself for the greater good, and cleared the blockage from his toilet after Kagura decided to see how many rolls of toilet paper she could jam down there as some kind of misguided revenge for who even knows what –

“Oi! Are you even paying attention to us?!” A second trickle of blood joins the first, and shit, do these bastards have to ruin his clothes like this? He just washed this shirt last week!

A swordtip nudges his chin up ever so gently, and he finds himself looking at a bunch of ugly mugs. The one who spoke before is speaking again, not that Gintoki really cares.

“Any last words, bastard? We’ll make sure to pass them on to your widow.”

Okay, he _does_ care that he has finally received his rightful acknowledgement as the husbando in this situation, but he also realises with a slight jolt of panic that he doesn’t have any good last words lined up. He’s used up all his killer lines already! Most of them in the early episodes, if he’s being honest with himself. He’s been meaning to get around to coming up with some more, but he’s just been so damn busy, what with all the sleeping in and lying around and pissing and moaning. His arse won’t scratch itself, dammit!

Maybe seduction _is_ still an option? He’ll give it a shot, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to go out in a blaze of balls-kicking.

“You want a piece of this, boys?” he purrs, lips pursed poutily. “Well, you’ll have to line up and go one at a time, because Gin-san’s not that kind of girl.”

The eyes of the goon in front of him widen in surprise, and okay, Operation Crotch Stomp is go –

Clearly he wasn’t fast enough, because he’s suddenly feeling a weird floating sensation, like everyone else is on the ground and he’s hovering above them. Someone must’ve nicked his jugular, and now he’s having an out-of-body experience as he bleeds out in the dirt.

_Wow. This kinda sucks._

This isn’t how he’d planned on going out! Not even close! Although everything he’s heard about out-of-body experiences usually involves looking down at your own body, and he can see no such thing – just a bunch of gawping goons, their necks craned back as they stare upwards in astonishment.

Maybe the booze finally got to him. Maybe this is just end-stage alcohol poisoning, and he’s gained special flying powers? At this point, nothing would surprise him.

Although, the sharp pinpricks of pain in his throat have given way to a dull, burning sensation that encircles most of his neck, and now that he thinks about it, he can feel his back and legs knocking and scraping against the wall behind him. It’s almost as if he’s a kitten, and he’s being hauled up by the scruff of his neck by a mama cat –

Okay, he’s definitely being dragged painfully over the edge of the riverbank by someone. He does his best to help push himself up, but even he can admit that he’s probably more of a hindrance than a help.

Finally, he finds himself horizontal once more, and he just takes a minute to flop down with a groan, eyes closed, not worrying too much for the moment about just who his unasked-for saviour might be. Once he’s more with it, he’ll tear them a new one. He had the situation completely in hand, dammit!

He lies there and listens to the sound of his too-fast breathing as he tries to get it back under control, before realising he can hear the sound of someone else’s breathing too. Curiosity is getting the better of him, and he cracks his eyes open _just_ a moment before he realises that he recognises the sound of that breathing, he knows who this is, and _oh shit – oh_ fuck –

Is it too late to close his eyes again? Yeah, definitely too late. Because he’s looking up at the mama cat that rescued him, and it is hands down the grumpiest, pissiest mama cat he’s ever seen, staring down at him with a rage that he can only describe as ‘incandescent’. Possibly also ‘sexy as fuck’, if he’s allowed to have two adjectives. But yeah, Hijikata is obviously not a happy camper, and Gintoki can’t say he blames him. Although, he _can_ blame him for being here in the first place. Who the hell comes to rescue someone they broke up with? Especially when they didn’t even need rescuing in the first place!

Fuck, this is really awkward. How dare Hijikata put him in this situation, the jerk.

The seconds tick on into what feels like hours, and shit, he’s gotta do something about this. He raises his hand. Wiggles his fingers. Smiles.

“Hi, Hijikata-kun.”

Hijikata’s eyebrow twitches in that way he’s missed so mu– which he hasn’t missed at all – before he swats Gintoki over the head.

“You fucking imbecile.” Hijikata’s fingers tighten around his arm, hauling him to his feet and shoving him into a stumbling run. “We’ve gotta run, idiot – there’s a whole bunch of them.”

Gintoki chances a look over his shoulder to see that not only have the guys from down by the river climbed the ladder and started running towards them, but that there are dozens more of them swarming out from a side street. If he was fucked before, then the two of them are doubly fucked now – and while the thought of him and Hijikata having one last stand together has a weird kind of appeal, the thought of Hijikata meeting his end at the hands of a bunch of stabby third-rate yakuza because Gin-san got too shitfaced to help out is somewhat less appealing. Not that he cares – it’s just that it would reflect so badly on him. He can’t have his legacy tainted this way. Kagura and Shinpachi already view him with too much contempt as it is.

He skids to a stop, planting his feet. Hijikata stops too, looking back at him with what almost looks like fear. “You bastard – what the hell are you –”

“Go on, Hijikata-kun,” he says loftily. It’s all pretty heroic, if he does say so himself – an errant breeze even takes advantage of the moment to set his hair fluttering in the wind like some victorious flag. If it weren’t for the blood and the puke and the who knows what else, he would look damn striking right now. “Save yourself – no point in the both of us going down.”

The dumb bastard stares at him for a long moment… and, for once, Gintoki has no idea what he’s thinking. 

“I’m obviously never going to do that,” Hijikata eventually snaps at him – and, yeah, that’s the pissy bastard he knows and – whatever else. 

“Well, given your record on doing things you’ve told me you’re never going to do, that’s not very reassuring,” Gintoki replies, meaning it as some helpful feedback, really – but Hijikata’s never been able to take constructive criticism, and this time won’t be any different, judging by the gritted teeth and bulging vein in his temple as he advances on Gintoki, fists clenched.

And then he’s bending at the knees, and Gintoki’s world suddenly turns upside-down, before he finds himself being jostled and bumped as they move down the street at a fast clip.

_What – how –_

Once his brain catches up with the rest of him, he realises that Hijikata has simply picked him up and slung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. That explains the spectacular view he’s getting of Hijikata’s arse, and also why he can feel a strong, secure hand gripping his thigh, but – what the fuck? Why is he – what could he possibly –

“Hey! Arsehole! What the hell do you think you’re doing, huh?!”

“Saving your sorry ass, you dipshit!” The streetlights go dimmer as they round a corner – must be moving through an alley – and Hijikata’s words are clipped short between heaving breaths. This is what happens when you fuck up your lungs with chain-smoking – Gin-san’s not out of breath at all. “Now shut the fuck up so they don’t hear us!”

Gintoki opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly they slow to a walk and then stop. There’s a rattling noise and then a creak; he can’t see what’s going on, but his razor-sharp wits deduce that Hijikata has opened a door. This deduction is confirmed when Hijikata takes a few more steps, before unceremoniously dumping Gintoki to the floor like a sack of rice.

“Well, nice to see you too,” he mutters, but there’s not much heat in it. He doesn’t want to think about it – doesn’t even remember much about it – but he knows that Hijikata doesn’t have much reason to talk to him right now, let alone save his sorry arse. He should probably express his gratitude, but _thanks for putting me in your debt and reminding me that the pretty good thing we had going is no longer going anywhere_ is probably not something that Hijikata wants to hear right now.

Levering himself slowly up onto one elbow, Gintoki peers into the darkness. He can’t see much, but he’s pretty sure they’re in some kind of warehouse, and it looks like Hijikata is barricading the door with whatever he can get his hands on. The asshole is just a dark blur, and Gintoki can barely make out his limbs, let alone his expression. Hijikata’s been silent for what must be a full minute now, and it’s unnerving as hell – even in a situation like this, he’s not the type to keep his thoughts to himself. The sound of his gradually slowing breaths seems to fill the cavernous space of the warehouse, punctuated by distant shouts outside that Gintoki is pretty sure are getting closer. There’s nothing else.

Eventually, Hijikata apparently decides that he’s stacked as much garbage as possible in front of the door, and the echo of his footsteps approaches Gintoki, an errant moonbeam catching his blade. As much as Gintoki knows that he’s just getting it out for yakuza-stabbing purposes, the thought _okay, now he’s going to finish me off_ pops into his head, and he can’t tell if it’s upsetting or not. Mostly he’s just tired. He _really_ needs a nap.

“So. Yorozuya.” Hijikata’s voice is sudden and low, closer than Gintoki would expect, and it sends a shiver of goosebumps down his spine. “We need to talk.”

_The fuck –?!_

“Not this shit again!” he yells, clutching at his head – really?! _Now?!_ Hijikata chooses _now_ to revisit their last unfortunate encounter, just in case Gintoki hadn’t gotten the message loud and clear already? “Are you fucking serious, Hijikata-kun? Is _that_ why you’re here? Were you just out and about and thought, ‘Hey, what the hell, I have a free evening – I’ll go break up with poor, abused Gin-san some more’?”

He’s always suspected Hijikata had a little seam of S buried in the fucking obvious mountain of M, but this is bordering on the perverse. He couldn’t have realised this about himself a month or so ago, when it might have benefitted Gintoki in some way? No – if Hijikata wants to go on a voyage of self-discovery now, he can do it on his own damn time! 

Whatever the case, Hijikata is staring at him incredulously as if _he’s_ the inconsiderate one, as if _he’s_ the one who barged in and declared his intention to stomp all over his significant fuckbuddy’s feelings. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Hijikata eventually manages to splutter out, still staring at Gintoki as if he’s insane. 

“Do I need to draw you a diagram?” Gintoki yells back at him – he might flail his arms around a little too; he’s really not that in control of his limbs or any other part of himself right now. Maybe he should have asked Zura if he could borrow his horrible little diorama, but he really didn’t think Hijikata was this fucking dense. Is this part of some sick role-play scenario? Does he not _remember_ or something? “We’re done! You made that pretty damn clear, what with the barging into my house, yanking my hand out of your pants and telling me we needed to _talk,_ as if I don’t know exactly what that means!”

Hijikata’s jaw appears to be clenched hard enough to double as a hydraulic press. “It _means,_ ” he eventually grates out after a thoroughly pregnant pause, “that I wanted to talk to you, you stupid fucking asshole. To _talk!_ That thing that people do when they’re not sticking their dicks in each other!”

Gintoki’s stomach drops, farewelling its usual position as it slides down through his intestines, falls out of his ass, and plummets to the floor. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I came to tell you not to fuck around with my work!” Hijikata pauses, teeth grinding for a moment, before adding, “Or, if you absolutely _have_ to, then at least give me a bit of advance warning. And _don’t_ go beating up a bunch of assholes because you – because you think they –”

Hijikata trails off, visibly swallowing. Gintoki stares at him, and, slowly, terribly, somewhere within his brain, feels the lid of the giant mental box marked ‘Do Not Open’ begin to creak upwards. 

“You think that’s why I did it?” he blurts out before any of the shit he has locked away in there can come crawling its horrifying way out. “That’s some fucking ego you’ve got there, Hijikata-kun – I’m surprised you can fit through doors with a head that big. Oh my God! What is that even like? I –”

“Why’d you do it then, fuckface? Eh? Care to explain it to me then?” Hijikata’s face is suddenly _way_ too close to his, eyes blazing, breath warm and smelling mildly of katsudon (has this bastard been eating katsudon? Without him?!).

“I _did_ it, you ungrateful jerk, because – because –”

_Because I knew it would make you break up with me?_

It’d seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, but now that he’s about to say it out loud, it seems a little… unhinged. Not to mention the fact that Hijikata is actually talking to him now – well, yelling at him, but tomayto, tomahto – and it’s nice, getting insulted by Hijikata again. Makes it feel like old times. There’s a kind of warm, tight feeling in the place he supposes his stomach would be if it hadn’t fallen on the floor.

Hijikata is still staring at him expectantly, his eyes a too-close gleam in the darkness. He supposes he should give him some kind of answer, if only because Hijikata hasn’t yelled at him for at least five seconds, which must be some kind of all-time record for him. It’s kind of creepy, to be honest.

Time for Gin-san and his astonishing intellect to hash this one out.

Why did he go after the yakuza? To make Hijikata break up with him. Okay.

Why, then, had he wanted Hijikata to break up with him? Is it because – because he –

 _Because,_ a traitorous voice in his brain begins to whisper, _because you didn’t want to admit that you –_

Gintoki’s guts do a slow, lurching somersault, and he doesn’t think he can pin this one on the hangover. The giant mental box is yawning wider with an ominous creak, threatening to drag him inside and swallow him whole. He’s pretty sure he saw some porn like that once. Needless to say, it did not have an ending that he wants to repeat here. He can feel the thoughts clawing at the edge of his consciousness, trying to get him to acknowledge them –

“What about you?” he barks out desperately, shoving his face forward into Hijikata’s, clenching his fists by his sides. He sees Hijikata wince as he gets a great big waft of pukey breath, but whatever, the asshole can live with it – he’s had worse! “You barge into my house all high and mighty telling me to mind my own business, but what about _you?_ ”

The absolutely flummoxed expression that crosses Hijikata’s face is extremely satisfying, in the moment before it’s replaced with an enraged snarl. “Fine then,” Hijikata growls, “what _about_ me?”

“Oh, where to even start?” Gintoki says, throwing his hands up, and – yeah, this is more like it. _This_ he can do! This doesn’t involve terrifying mental boxes or weird fever dream-esque porn! “How about your level of selfishness in the sack, hmm, Hijikata-kun? Let’s start with that – it’s always Gin-san putting in the effort, as per usual! Did it ever cross your mind that maybe Gin-san also has needs? That I might appreciate it if my suggestions of a visit from a naughty nurse weren’t shot down in three seconds flat? Eh? Did you ever think of that?” 

Hijikata is just sort of gawping at him now, mouth open, eyes staring, and so Gintoki barrels on. 

“And let’s not even go into how my fridge is full of mayonnaise these days and never any food – do you think it’s cheap keeping it fully stocked in the style to which you have, disgustingly, become accustomed?”

“How is that my –” Hijikata starts to say, but Gin-san’s on a roll now, picking up steam. 

“And let’s not talk about how you somehow manage to be both a blanket hog _and_ incredibly clingy – how does that even work? I always end up cold _and_ I can’t roll over for fear of disturbing his lordship’s beauty sleep!”

Hijikata’s eyebrow twitches, and Gintoki thinks that he’s going to fall for the bait and get side-tracked defending his bediquette’s honour, but astonishingly, he manages to stay on topic. “I could’ve bought a larger blanket if you’d just _told_ me that you were cold, instead of being a giant stupid manbaby who can’t be bothered to open his goddamn mouth for any other reason than to cram food or dick into it –”

“Both at the same time, you unimaginative bastard! Just because _you_ can’t appreciate Gin-san’s superior multi-tasking skills!” He wraps a hand in Hijikata’s cravat and yanks him even closer, and most definitely does _not_ relish the thrill that goes straight to his dick when that dumb arsehole grabs his shoulder, thumb digging in tight. His mouth is _so close,_ and Gintoki really wants to lean in and bite it. “Anyway, if I’d asked, you would’ve just started with the whole ‘oh, that’s just typical Yorozuya – always broke, spending his last yen on mail-order fitness machines and dodgy pyramid schemes’ thing –”

“That’s exactly what you did!” explodes Hijikata, almost trembling in his rage. “No one needs two hundred pairs of jeggings!”

Gintoki twists the cravat in his fist, dragging Hijikata close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the brush of his thigh. “I sold them all, didn’t I?”

“Because I ordered Yamazaki to buy them! They sat in the Shinsengumi evidence locker until Kondou-san threw them out because he said they didn’t spark joy or something! Who the fuck knows where they are now?!” His face twists into a sneer. “Anyway, the profit from two hundred pairs of jeggings should’ve been enough to last you a while. Where did it all go?”

 _More jeggings._ “Into a fund for Kagura’s education, which can’t be touched until she’s twenty.” He sniffs. “I know you don’t value that kind of thing, but I wanted to make sure she’s provided for.”

The dumb bastard is just giving him that _look,_ the one that says ‘you’re dumb as balls’. Gintoki really hates that look – and okay, he can admit that _occasionally_ he might not be entirely undeserving of such an expression, but seriously, at least he’s never, like, tried to lure beetles with mayonnaise, or tripped over the phone charger while attempting to sneak out for a 3:00 a.m. smoke and ended up faceplanting on the tatami with his arse in the air, or listened to a damn thing that gorilla has to say about pretty much anything. Gin-san isn’t the only fucking idiot here, and he’s sick of Hijikata acting like he is.

Hijikata shakes his head with a _tch,_ and that sound has never pissed Gintoki off more than it does in this moment. “I would’ve thought that providing for her would involve making sure that she can _eat_ first and foremost, but what would I know? Clearly I’m lacking the _education_ to determine whether food or cheapass jeggings are more important to a growing girl.”

Shit, they’re touching on all _kinds_ of issues here! He’s almost forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place, although he also thinks that may be a good thing. Because whatever it was, he knows it was shitty.

Not that this one is going much better, he has to admit. And hey, wasn’t Hijikata the one calling _him_ stupid a minute ago? How did this end up all turned around? And how did Kagura get dragged into this?! She loves food _and_ godawful clothes! There are no winners here!

The stupid jerk’s fingers twitch against Gintoki’s shoulder, and Gintoki is suddenly discomfited to realise that he can identify it as the _I really need a cigarette but can’t get one right now_ twitch. He shouldn’t be able to identify this asshole’s twitches! That’s just weird!

Hijikata huffs, not even letting Gin-san deliver his shattering rebuttal – whatever it may have been – and yanks Gintoki’s head up so that they’re staring into each other’s eyes. “See, this is what I mean! I came around to your house the other day to talk to you like a reasonable human being, and you just flung yourself down on the couch and refused to talk like a spoiled brat. How the hell are we supposed to do whatever the hell this is, if you won’t even talk to me like an adult when I want to ask you not to sabotage my fucking job?”

Shit. How does he even respond to this? The giant mental ‘Do Not Open’ box is leering at him, its gaping maw seeming to beckon Gin-san ever further into its depths. He backs away from it – and okay, he has to use whatever he has at his disposal to keep it at bay. He just plain refuses to get vored today.

“Oh, yeah? Well, I opened up my house and my legs to someone who won’t even tell me how he broke his own goddamn leg, but you know, whatever. Apparently I was feeling particularly stupid at the time, so I guess that’s on me, too.”

Hijikata’s fingers loosen a little from around Gintoki’s jaw; his face drops into an expression that Gintoki can’t quite work out, his mouth hanging open slightly.

Gintoki has no idea why this particular blow seems to have struck, but he hasn’t gotten this impressively far in life by not driving home an advantage when he sees it. “Yeah, my own boyf wouldn’t even tell me how he fucked up his leg, even when I asked nicely. I had to find out from the fucking Marquis de Sougo.”

“Sou– Sougo?” Hijikata’s hand drops away entirely, and he blinks in confusion, before shaking his head and rubbing his hand over his face. “He didn’t tell you jack shit – he was just using you because he couldn’t be assed dealing with the yakuza, and he knew you’d go off to beat them up. Even that little pissant can read you like a fucking book, you stupid piece of shit.”

First of all: rude! Second of all – what?

‘Well, of course,’ is probably the best way to describe his emotional state at this moment. So fucking Okita-kun had lied to and manipulated him for his own grimy ends. Quelle fucking surprise. But more importantly, if the yakuza hadn’t done it, then – 

“So how’d you break it, then?”

He says it all casual-like, and tries really hard not to look like he’s holding his breath. This whole broken leg fiasco has been a rollercoaster ride for poor Gin-san’s emotions; he’d finally thought it was over, but turns out he’s got at least one more hill to plunge down.

Hijikata swallows, looking away, screwing up his mouth into something that looks dangerously close to some kind of scowly pout. “I –” he begins, before cutting himself off, and Gintoki has to stop himself from leaning in. Hijikata takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, looks resolutely off to the side and mumbles, “I fell out of your toilet window.”

“What? What did you say?” Gintoki really _does_ lean in this time, feeling something that might very well be mild hysteria flailing around inside his belly. “You _what?!_ ”

“I fell out of your fucking toilet window!” Hijikata snaps at him, finally turning to look him in the eye. “What about it? What the fuck do you want me to say?”

Gintoki’s mind feels curiously blank. He knows that toilet window is a death trap – hadn’t he noted that very thing as he’d been scrabbling his way out of it himself, in order to avoid the judgemental stares of his so-called friends and associates? Hadn’t he almost snapped off parts of his own person making his descent from that portal of doom? 

Okay, but – he’d had a perfectly good reason for doing such an unutterably stupid thing. What the hell excuse does Hijikata have? 

“Why the fuck did you –”

“Because I couldn’t go down the stairs because that scary old hag was hanging around outside and I had to go to work!” Hijikata snaps, the words exploding out of him with enough force that Gintoki leans back slightly. “For fuck’s sake, she’s _scary!_ She keeps saying shit to me about the Shinsengumi ‘turning a blind eye’ and ‘getting in on the ground floor’! And one time she was sharpening her filleting knife while looking at me with what was clearly homicidal intent, and – stop laughing, you cockstain, this isn’t funny –”

Gintoki would say something dazzling in reply, but speech is pretty much impossible right now, given that he’s laughing himself sick. This is the best he’s felt in – well, he doesn’t have much of a concept of time right now, but he’s going to guess that ‘weeks’ isn’t too far off the mark.

 _This_ is how the big bad scary Demon Vice-Chief broke his leg? _This_ is what frightened him enough to take the stupidest possible exit route from Gintoki’s home? _This_ is what set off a cascade of shitty events that basically gangbanged both Gin-san’s life and his various bar tabs?!

Not that he doesn’t get it. He does! Otose is fucking scary. Probably doubly so, if she doesn’t have a reason to be nice to you. But –

He suddenly remembers the incident that Hijikata’s talking about. The filleting knife. And –

“She was going to make you sashimi as a welcome-to-the-family treat, you dumb fuck!” he manages to wheeze out. “That was her friendly face! You would’ve found out if you hadn’t stammered out an excuse and bolted at the first opportunity! Oh my God!”

Hijikata’s eyes widen for a moment, before narrowing again. “You weren’t looking when she did it! It was definitely a threat! She was going to welcome me to the family with nutsack nigiri! Oi! Are you even listening to me, you fucking asshole?!”

He’s listening. He really is. But it’s hard, what with all the pointing and laughing he’s doing. His whole body hurts, from his cheeks to his ribs to whatever remains of his stomach, and his eyes are watering, but he doesn’t even care.

“To think that you almost fucking killed yourself falling from a window while running from an old lady – _haaaa_ – and then you were too embarrassed to admit what an absolute idiot you’d been – to think that I could love someone so incredibly stu–”

He cuts himself off in shock at the bullshit that’s just spewed from his mouth, but it’s all pretty much of a muchness, because Hijikata’s fist meets his face a split second later. Gintoki staggers back, clutching at his nose, but he can barely feel the pain.

 _What did I just – the_ fuck _did I just say –_

He straightens up and squints his aching eyes. Hijikata is there before him, moonlight cutting shadows across his face, his shoulders heaving, fingers twitching. His sword, which has somehow managed to stay in his hand for this whole debacle, is dangling forgotten at his side.

The two of them stand there for long moments, Hijikata’s mouth opening and closing. Occasionally sounds come out of it, but they’re just garbled fragments that scarcely bear any resemblance to actual sentences. It’s just all _what_ and _oh my fucking God_ and a _love –?!_ that’s quickly choked off. He looks like he’s just been slapped across the face with a large fish, but somehow he manages to make even complete fucking bewilderment look sexy, and shit, maybe Gintoki wasn’t suffering a temporary leave of his senses when he said… _that_. Maybe he was being completely honest. Because why the fuck else would he feel this way about someone who looks so incredibly _stupid?_

There’s all kinds of heinous shit spilling out of the giant mental box now, and he’s just going to have to try to shove it all back in there at some point, and okay, that’s going to suck balls. Or maybe he can just live in the giant mental box forever, now that his issues have vacated the premises and are apparently swarming every part of his conscious mind.

He stares at Hijikata staring at him, stares at his stupid mouth, even as he tries to work out what the hell he should do next. He’s never made a… a _that_ declaration to anyone before, and certainly not to someone he’s broken up with, or whose leg-breaking method he’s mocked, or who has had to drag his puke-stained body through the streets. There is no handbook for this situation!

In the end, he can only appeal to the part of him that just does whatever it wants without putting much thought into it. It’s gotten him this far in life, after all.

_… Ah, fuck it. If I’m going to do something really fucking stupid, it should at least be something I’ll enjoy for a change. And I might never get the chance again._

He lunges forward and grabs Hijikata’s collar in one swift movement, pulling him in close and crashing their mouths together. It’s more a mouth-focused headbutt than a kiss, but nonetheless there’s a flush of warmth through Gintoki’s body, creeping up through his stomach and into his chest. The thrill still hasn’t worn off, he guesses, of grabbing Hijikata when he least expects it and waiting to see if he’s going to hit him or kiss him back – or, most likely, both at the same time.

… Maybe he just goes for men who try to kill him, since that’s what Hijikata had tried to do on their first _and_ second meetings; Takasugi hadn’t tried it until much, much later of course, but he’d threatened to do it often enough and perhaps that had been enough at the time to get his motor running, for whatever deep-rooted psychological reason he has absolutely no interest in examining at this or any other juncture. 

His pulse is beating in his skull as he feels Hijikata jerk against him, and Gintoki braces himself as he raises his arm, preparing to be shoved away – but the only thing that happens is Hijikata’s hand sliding down his neck, thumb under his jaw and his fingers pressing against the line of his spine. Gintoki _really_ hopes this isn’t part of some plot on Hijikata’s part to lull him into a false sense of security, because he opens his mouth to draw him deeper, and breathes in the sharp scent of his sweat (and the fucking katsudon he was apparently eating without him), as something that feels suspiciously close to desperation wells up inside him. 

“Hijikata,” he whispers, and the hand on the back of his neck tightens once more –

“Well, this is all very touching, but it doesn’t really solve our cashflow problem.”

Gintoki’s head whips around at a speed which, quite frankly, he would’ve thought impossible five seconds ago; he ignores Hijikata’s pained grunt and what sounds like _ow, my fucking nose,_ because there, standing in the doorway amongst a strewn sea of boxes and other garbage, are a whole lot of yakuza. He’s not sure what the collective noun for yakuza is, or what word would accurately describe their numbers, but he’s pretty sure that _a lot_ will suffice for now.

 _Oh shit – how long have they been there? What did they see – what did they_ hear?! _Did the whole lot of them just bust in here without either of us even noticing –_

Their apparent ringleader – the fucker who has Lake Touya hoisted casually over his shoulder – smirks. “Unless you want to keep making more of those videos until you’ve repaid your debt?”

It’s tempting, especially if they’re looking to make the X-rated stuff instead of the weird little yellporn videos Sougo was hocking; however, Hijikata’s stream of obscenities – most of which can be summarised by _no_ and _fuck no_ – is making his opinion on the matter pretty damn clear. A shame.

“You heard the man,” he says airily. “No more of those vids. Besides,” and here he leans forward conspiratorially, “we kind of broke up. So there’s not really a lot you can do to sway us on this one. Or him, anyway. I’m always up for it.”

Even in the darkness, he can see the dismay on some of the goons’ faces; there’s a gasped _No!_ and a _But I love your stuff!_ and some general murmuring. He’s not quite sure how he feels about that, but he has to admit that it’s at least a little bit flattering. His ego will take whatever it can get, at this point.

“Enough!” The main fucker has Lake Touya pointed at him now, and Gintoki’s blood seethes in his veins. “We’re done playing. Take these two dipshits alive if you can, but dead is fine, too.”

“Fucking _finally,_ ” Gintoki says with heartfelt emotion. The hangover of earlier has receded somewhat; now he feels electrified, or at least slightly buzzed. Some good old-fashioned hack-and-slash would go a long way towards improving his day. Especially because –

He can feel his mouth pulling itself into a grin as he takes a step backwards to the place where he instinctively knows Hijikata will be. It’s something he can do without thought, but it’s still more of a relief than he wants to admit when his back meets Hijikata’s, warm and steady.

“Hey, asshole.” Hijikata’s words come out with an exhale of cigarette smoke, and it kind of makes him deliriously happy for some weird reason to know that that dickhead is acting more like himself again already. It must be at least half an hour since he last lit up – no wonder he’s been getting tetchy. “We really _do_ have to talk, you know. Especially since you said –” He pauses awkwardly, before barrelling on with a kind of dogged determination. “– _That_. That’s not the kind of thing you just dump on someone.”

_Or maybe the yakuza can just string me up by my intestines and leave me for whichever carrion bird happens to wander my way. Yeah, that sounds preferable._

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He affects a breezy air and does his best to put _that_ impending horror show out of his mind. Better to seize the moment while he still can – so he leans back further and definitely does not rub his butt against Hijikata’s. “So, whaddya say, Hijikata-kun? Should we get this show on the road, kick a little yakuza booty?”

He can’t see Hijikata’s face, but the sharp-edged smile in his voice is obvious, even as the yakuza advance in a slow but relentless wave.

“Let’s do it.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, we’re sorry! We had this story all planned out, but the chapters kept getting longer, and so… we had to add another one T__T Please accept our apologies since the fic was supposed to be ending this week, but we were worried that if we tried to keep everything that still needs to happen and be wrapped up in one chapter, we’d end up rushing something or leaving something out… or posting a 20,000 word chapter :( Hopefully there’s enough in this chapter to keep things interesting <3 
> 
> Thank you all again for reading, kudosing, commenting – we both really appreciate it.

Hijikata supposes he could have used the time arguing with (and uh, making out with) Gintoki to call Yamazaki and tell him to send backup, but the moment has well and truly passed now.

Now, there’s only this: him and Gintoki, back-to-back, and a relentlessly advancing enemy. These are the situations that make his blood sing; there’s nothing quite like a bit of high-stakes, totally outnumbered, life-or-death action to get his heart pumping. Normally it wouldn’t even occur to him to include B-grade yakuza in such a scenario, but, well, there are more of the bastards pouring through the door with every passing moment, spreading out to encircle the two of them, and Gintoki isn’t exactly in top shape. Even Hijikata himself is feeling a bit rough, given that he just hauled Gintoki’s overly heavy ass through the backstreets of Edo… and if he’s going to be completely honest with himself, he’s a bit distracted right now. Getting a – a – a _love confession_ in the middle of a particularly stupid argument with his particularly stupid ex had thrown him for a massive fucking loop, and he’s still feeling kind of confused and overwhelmed and pissed off, and there’s a thudding of his heart that means he’s maybe just a _tiny_ bit elated.

… Shit, this is _really_ not the time. More to the point, despite Gintoki’s whole ‘I’m absolutely fine’ act, there’s still a slight slur in his voice, and he’s exuding fumes strong enough to knock out a bear. 

But all right – fine. One thing he’s learned to deal with over the course of his time with the Shinsengumi is that you go to war with the army you have. Even if in this instance it’s less of an army and more of a drunken fool who’s currently rubbing his butt against Hijikata _again,_ murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like _You know you missed Gin-san’s pert derrière, Hijikata-kun_.

 _But then, hasn’t this always been the way?_ a traitorous little voice inside his head is already whispering. Yorozuya may look and act like five pounds of shit crammed into a two-pound bag, but – _But really, there’s no one else who I’d rather have my back in a fight._

Kondou, sure, but on the whole he’d much rather Kondou were somewhere safely out of harm’s way. Sougo he can trust to see off the enemy with cold, brutal efficiency, but after that, Hijikata knows he’s got about a half-a-second window until he feels a stabby sensation in his own gut. Yamazaki? If the enemy has a devastating wheat intolerance, then Yamazaki and his hoard of anpan might do in a pinch… but even then, he’d probably do better to bring the anpan and leave Yamazaki back at headquarters.

Nah – as much as he really fucking hates to admit it, his taste in fighting partners is just as shitty as his taste in… other things partners. Which makes sense, because apparently his taste in everything is just Yorozuya, and what does this even say about him?

He shifts his weight back ever so slightly towards Gintoki’s reassuring warmth and pauses, poised on a knife-edge, waiting for the perfect moment to surge forward and strike. His sword sits comfortably in his hand like an old friend, his breathing evens out, and – _there_.

Hijikata springs forward, his blade sweeping in a long arc that takes out at least three of the enemy, and this is it, this is more like it. It’s amazing, really, what delivering one solid punch to Gintoki’s stupid face has done for his mental health. Maybe he should go to the doctor and see if he can get a prescription so that he can punch Gintoki on an ongoing basis.

… And okay, maybe there are one or two other reasons for his improved mood. But punching Gintoki is definitely right up there, as is beating up a bunch of guys alongside Gintoki, and a few other things he doesn’t want to think too closely about right now, lest he end up with a stupid grin on his face. The last thing he needs is to look like some sort of lovesick idiot in front of the yakuza. Which he’s _not,_ but these things can be easily misconstrued.

He dodges a thrust easily, and shakes his head at how obviously the move was telegraphed. These guys are sloppy. Honestly, why are they even bothering? Do they not realise who they’re up against?

He takes a luxuriant drag on his cigarette as he delivers a swift kick to the kneecap of the next goon who charges him, only half-listening to the guy’s screams. There’s a brief lull in the fighting as a couple of yakuza stumble over the writhing body of one of their comrades in the dimly lit warehouse, and then their friends trip over _them,_ and Hijikata takes the moment to glance over in the direction of Gintoki’s voice, which is yelling barely coherent obscenities somewhere behind him.

Gintoki is… not doing too badly, given the state Hijikata found him in. Weaponless, he appears to be attempting to punch his way through the whole damn lot of them, mixing it up occasionally by slamming the goons’ heads into the crates that line the walls. He’s obviously tired, though, his swings getting sloppier even as Hijikata watches.

For a long moment, Hijikata stares at Yorozuya flailing around like a defective windmill and feels something suspiciously like affection welling up inside him, alongside what he can admit is mild concern. It seems like even the Shiroyasha has his limits, and those limits apparently involve removing all of the blood from his body and replacing it with beer.

And it’s not like he doesn’t trust Gintoki to take care of himself or anything, but, well, it probably was a _bit_ shitty on Hijikata’s part to not source a weapon for him. He’d seen Gintoki’s bokutou in the hands of the head goon earlier, and he’s definitely going to take that bastard out just as soon as possible, but in the meantime Gintoki is weaponless. Which isn’t a huge problem as far as attack goes, since Gintoki is currently more or less holding his own with only his fists to aid him… but it’s kind of shit in terms of defence. Forearms aren’t exactly great for blocking an incoming sword, and he’d really prefer it if it didn’t get to that point.

“Enjoying the show, Hijikata-kun?” Gintoki’s voice echoes across the warehouse, and it’s really more breathless than it should be. “Do Gin-san’s bulging biceps turn you on? Are you hard right now?”

“As if! Shut the fuck up!”

Why had he been feeling a spark of concern earlier? Maybe it was just indigestion. Yeah, that seems more like it. That dumb, cocky, shallow bastard can suffer whatever fate comes his way.

He glances about for a – purely theoretical – answer to the weapon issue, even as he absent-mindedly skewers the guy behind him with a backwards thrust of his katana. Normally he’d just grab a weapon from one of the bodies on the ground and toss it across the room to Gintoki, but he absolutely does _not_ trust that idiot to not catch it blade-first, given that he’s apparently spent the past however many days steeping himself in sake.

Hijikata sidesteps a couple of charging yakuza and lets momentum do most of the work of cracking their heads together, then relieves another one of his right hand with a quick swipe of his katana. See, Gintoki could be doing his own slicing and dicing if he’d just grab a sword off someone, but no, he’s just too damn stupid.

“Oi, Hijikata-kun! How does it feel to be the kind of guy who just stands around and watches someone else do all the hard work? I guess this is the sort of behaviour to expect from a blanket hog.” Gintoki’s voice takes on a leering tone, even as Hijikata feels his hackles rise. “Yeah, you guys have no idea how selfish this bastard is! Gin-san has to wear socks to bed, because this guy just has to have _allll_ the blankets to himself!”

There are definite responses of _That’s not right!_ and _You tell him, Yorozuya!_ from somewhere in the crowd, and who the hell’s side are these bastards on?!

He opens his mouth to say _That’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t even understand that toilets are flushable,_ but honestly, why the hell should he even dignify this shit with a response? They’re definitely going to talk this bullshit out later… but probably it’ll be more productive if Gintoki is actually alive for the conversation. Maybe.

_Is this that asshole’s roundabout way of trying to hint to me that I should give him a weapon? Why can’t he just say that, like a normal human being? Why am I apparently fluent in Gintoki-speak?!_

“Maybe next time you could just _ask_ me for some help!” Hijikata yanks his scabbard off his belt and flings it in Gintoki’s direction. “Heads up, asshole!”

Gintoki catches it with only a small fumble, before looking down at it in his hands, an expression of outrage clear on his face even in the darkness.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!”

“Stick it up your ass, for all I care,” Hijikata snaps at him. Not that he’d expected _thanks_ per se, but for fuck’s sake, something that at least _implied_ gratitude would be nice. 

“Oh, kinky! I like it! Thanks, Hijikata-kun.”

… Okay, maybe it was better without the gratitude after all. Hijikata doesn’t need to be able to see Gintoki’s face in order to know the exact expression he’s making, and fuck, he needs a cigarette.

“This is really not the time for this shit,” he yells, ducking as a katana slices through the air where his neck just was. “Take it or leave it, you dumb bastard.”

“Fine! Fuck you! I choose to take your shitty scabbard, but only because I don’t want to listen to you bitching and moaning about it!”

Even as the words leave Gintoki’s mouth, the scabbard blocks an overhead strike that’s arcing down towards his head; a moment later, the dumb bastard is ramming it into another goon’s throat, even as he continues his diatribe about good-for-nothing assholes who think that they can get away with doing whatever the hell they feel like just because they’re not completely shit in the sack.

Hijikata grits his teeth, ignoring him – at least until his path through the yakuza ends with his shoulder pressed against Yorozuya’s, the heave of his breath warm against the side of his face. 

He can’t help it – he glances sideways, catching the glint in Gintoki’s eye, the small smirk on his lips. And _God_ he wishes that didn’t make his heart turn over in his chest the way it does or make his stomach churn with… _something,_ anyway; he already knows what it is, and so he doesn’t really need to give it a name, does he?

“All right, Hijikata-kun?” 

Gintoki’s voice is soft enough that Hijikata knows he’s the only one who heard it – it was more like a low, husky exhalation than anything else, and it sends a shiver down his spine as he thinks of all the other times Gintoki’s said that, sweaty, out of breath, and smirking, in the moments before he’d leaned down and pressed his mouth against Hijikata’s. He swallows, resisting the urge to shake his head; he doesn’t want to think of that now, not in conjunction with what Gintoki said before, and _especially_ not in the middle of a fight. 

_Focus._ Focus is what he needs, not confusion, even though everything Yorozuya does is confusing, more or less. 

“I’m fine,” he snaps out. “Watch out for your own neck.”

If Gintoki says anything in response, it’s lost in the blur of movement as the yakuza surge forward once more – and then there’s nothing to do but to lose himself in the rhythm of the fight, to swing his sword back in the knowledge that Gintoki won’t get in its way, to keep cutting until the men in front of him start to fall back, warily circling them instead of rushing forward. 

Hijikata can hear them murmuring, clearly uncertain about what to do next, and maybe this is an opportunity to tell them to back off now – if they give themselves up, it’s a little less chasing he’ll have to do later, even if it _does_ mean more paperwork once he’s back at barracks. 

At the very least, it’s an opportunity to catch his breath and check in with Gintoki, who is currently leaning forward with his hands on his knees. It sounds like he’s trying to say something that he probably thinks is clever and witty, but he’s wheezing too loudly to get the words out, and that’s probably for the best. Unfit bastard.

Hijikata opens his mouth to tell him as much –

“Hey! Hey, Shinsengumi! I mean, uh – Vice-Chief! Sir!”

“Eh?”

Hijikata glances off to the side, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve. Over to his left is the perkiest damn yakuza he’s ever seen in his life – he’s practically bouncing on his toes, and somehow it bodes way more ill than the guys who are brandishing their swords and muttering threateningly.

“Mister Vice-Chief!” Oh God, he recognises that voice. It’s one of the guys from earlier – the one who said _But I love your stuff!_ and got all swoony.

 _Is this… is this a_ Yorozuya vs Shinsengumi _fanboy?!_

He resists the urge to facepalm. He’s going to kill Sougo for unleashing this never-ending hell into his life. Of all the fucking –

“I don’t want to be fighting you. I totally love you guys!” the kid whispers, raising his sword and making a jab for Hijikata’s midsection, just as one of his compatriots decides to make an ill-advised sortie, only to get a scabbard to the solar plexus from Gintoki and fall gasping to the ground. 

“I was wondering,” the kid stammers, as Hijikata ducks beneath his blade – _Does he want to kill me or not?!_ “I mean, I – well, I wanted to ask if I could – would you mind if I –”

“Spit it out!” Hijikata snarls, as he blocks another of the kid’s swings. 

“Could I….” The kid releases a slow breath and squares his shoulders resolutely. “Could I have an autograph?”

_An autograph? Before or after he fucking skewers me with his sword?!_

How the hell is he supposed to respond to this?! He brings his sword up again to fend off the kid’s blade, shoving him back against a pile of crates. “You want an autograph? Fine! Tell these asshole friends of yours to back off and fine! Whatever! I’ll sign you a fucking autograph!”

“Really?” The kid’s face lights up like he’s just been told he can get a puppy, and he reaches excitedly into his sleeve. “If you could just sign it here, and make it out to Shirosuke-kun….”

He’s saying something else, but Hijikata isn’t taking in a single word. His higher functions shut down the moment he saw _that_ shade of yellow, _that_ A3 paper size. He doesn’t need to look any closer to know what horrors the paper contains, to see the lovingly rendered debilitating butthole injury in all its ghastly glory, and he doesn’t need to be able to hear in order to know that Yorozuya is somewhere off behind him laughing himself sick.

His hand tightens into a painful grip, and the kid nods enthusiastically, his head bobbing up and down, and it’s only when Hijikata feels a gentle hand on his arm and a voice saying _Don’t you think he’s had enough?_ that somehow cuts through the roaring in his ears that he realises his hand is clamped around the kid’s throat, and the kid is not so much nodding as struggling for his life.

He unclamps his fingers with difficulty, and the kid falls to the ground, gasping out something that sounds suspiciously like _He touched me! Hijikata-kun touched me!_ On top of all this, Hijikata seems to have dropped his unfinished cigarette somehow, and everything is officially shit.

“Lucky sod. I wish Hijikata-kun would touch _me_.”

Hijikata shrugs Yorozuya’s hand off his arm, shoving the grinning idiot backwards, and tries to ignore just how burning hot his face is right now. “Shut up, bastard. You think this shit is funny? You think that _Hijikata-kun_ will touch people who find this shit funny?”

Gintoki holds his hands up placatingly, but he’s definitely still laughing, damn him. “Not funny at all. Definitely the least funny thing I’ve seen all week, and I walked in on Catherine in the bath the other day.”

“What – I – no, don’t tell me.”

Hijikata rubs at his temples. This is the kind of garbage he has to look forward to in his life if he and Gintoki sort things out. This is –

A movement from above catches the corner of his eye, but it’s far, far too late for him to bring his sword into position; he barely manages to even raise his elbow before the goon barrels into him, having flung himself off the top of a stack of crates that’re shrouded in shadows.

He slams face-first into the ground, a knee jammed into his back – and before he can throw the bastard off, the pinprick pressure of a swordtip to the back of his neck stills him into submission.

_Shit. Shit, fuck, you goddamn idiot, you let yourself get distracted, you let your guard down –_

He can hear the yakuza swarming forward with renewed enthusiasm, the floor trembling beneath their thundering feet, and now there’re other knees pinning him down, other swords just begging for an excuse to cut him open.

Two cries of _Hijikata-kun!_ ring in his ears; one, improbably, is Shirosuke-kun, but the other is –

_Oh, shit._

That dumb bastard can’t be trusted to make a sensible decision at the best of times; and now, with a bunch of swords pressing into Hijikata’s neck and said dumb bastard exhausted, swordless, and hungover, Hijikata _knows_ that Gintoki’s going to do something completely, unutterably stupid. Yorozuya _could_ escape while the goons are distracted and at least cut their losses, but will he do that? Of course not! He’ll just get himself pointlessly killed instead, the overprotective idiot!

Even as the thought passes through his head, the pressure on his back increases, and he grunts as a knee digs into his kidney. He can’t see jack, but he knows he’s massively, completely outnumbered.

“Nuh-uh, bastard. If you don’t want your boyfriend here to become Shinsengumi dango, you’ll stay right the fuck where you are.”

The flat of a blade taps against the side of Hijikata’s head to emphasise the statement, and he recognises the familiar weight of wood, rather than steel. So the ringleader has finally joined the fray, now that it’s safe for him to come out of the shadows. Goddamn coward.

“And you.” Lake Touya taps lazily against Hijikata’s head again, and Hijikata grits his teeth. “You just had to go get yourself involved, didn’t you? We were happy to hash this out with the other guy and keep the Shinsengumi out of it –”

_Of course you were, you moron! Why would you want to involve the Shinsengumi?!_

“– But now you’ve given us no choice. Maybe we should send _you_ to the bottom of the harbour, eh? Sounds like more than a fair deal to me.”

Hijikata has a few issues with this deal, but he doesn’t think these guys seem like the type to listen to his perfectly reasonable objections. In any case, he can feel a warm trickle of blood down the side of his neck, and probably it’s best that he keep his mouth shut for the moment so that he can buy time to come up with an escape plan. Because right now things aren’t looking great, he can admit that, and –

“It’s me you guys want, right? Well, I’m right here. Let him go. Take me instead.”

Hijikata’s heart goes still in his chest for a long moment at the sound of Gintoki’s voice, before kickstarting itself with a series of sickening lurches. 

_You idiot! You absolute fucking fool!_

Because of _course_ Gintoki can’t help himself. His voice is brash, indifferent, but Hijikata can tell that he absolutely is not fucking around. He’s going to get them both killed, and while Hijikata has been prepared for his own death since the moment he first picked up a sword, the sudden empty feeling in his gut drives home the realisation that he is not now and never will be prepared for Gintoki’s death.

 _Especially over something so incredibly stupid. A broken leg and a crate of drugs? Come_ on _. I refuse to believe that this is how it ends._

“Just kill me already and get it over with,” he mutters, as much to play for time and stop Gintoki from saying anything even more stupid as anything else. “Come on, which of us is the bigger scalp here: the Vice-Chief of the Shinsengumi, or some guy who hasn’t bathed in a week?”

“Hey!” Gintoki squawks. “It’s five days, tops! And Gin-san is totally the catch of the day! Everyone in Kabukichou loves me!”

It almost feels like a dare – Hijikata’s automatic denial of that last statement is on the tip of his tongue, but it feels a bit harsh, given everything. And Gintoki would totally use it against him later, were they to actually survive. “Let that guy go – his stink is seriously starting to make my eyes water. If you keep me instead, you can kill me _or_ get a nice big government ransom. Or both, if you play your cards right. If you try to ransom that guy, you’ll be lucky to get a box of sukonbu and an offer to clean your kitchen. He’s not worth it.”

He can hear Gintoki sputtering, but before the inarticulate noises can coalesce into some kind of coherent response, there’s a nasty laugh near Hijikata’s head.

“Aww, how touching,” the head goon sneers, squatting down to pinch Hijikata’s cheek, and it’s all he can do not to try and bite his fingers off. “This isn’t the kind of thing that I expected from you two – were those videos all an act?”

“Eat shit, asshole.” Okay, not his finest comeback, but he doesn’t need the fucking yakuza analysing his love life! If he’s going to die today, then he wants to keep at least a shred of his dignity intact.

“I see.”

The blow to the back of his head is sudden and brutal, and rams his face into the concrete floor; he’s not aware of a whole lot for a while after that, but he must’ve struggled at some point, because he can feel his arms being twisted up behind his back in a really unpleasant way, and okay, that’s not good. He can kind of hear yelling and fighting, though it’s hard to make out the details over the ringing in his ears, and then his stomach does a slow roll as he’s hauled to his knees, his head yanked back, a hot, wet line of pain across his throat. He swallows carefully against the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him, and has the hazy thought that it would really suck if he accidentally cut his own throat by lurching forward to throw up.

The sounds continue on for a bit, and Hijikata concentrates on how much his neck hurts, how much it sucks to have someone hold up most of your body weight by your hair, and how much shit Gintoki’s going to give him if he goes bald because of this.

_Gintoki…?_

He’s not sure if he’s had his eyes open or closed all this time – he knows that it’s dark, and each crash and yell sends a bolt of light across his vision. But okay, it’s probably time to make sure his eyes are open, since it seems like there’s something important going on, and so he tries to force his eyelids apart.

And – there.

It takes a few long moments for his eyes to adjust, but once he manages it, he really wishes they hadn’t. Because seeing Gintoki on his knees is never a good thing – well, okay, sometimes it’s a very good thing, but never in a fight. He’s a _mess,_ barely recognisable through all the blood, his face mere inches from Hijikata’s own. His hands must be bound behind his back, because Hijikata can’t think of any other reason why he wouldn’t be fighting tooth and nail right now.

“Sorry, Hijikata-kun,” Gintoki whispers. “Kind of fucked up a little.”

Hijikata blinks, his only defence against an absolute killer headache. What’s going on again – ?

“There. That’s much better.”

He winces as a loud, harsh voice rattles his ears. Who – ?

“I’ve had enough of you two,” the voice continues on, sounding irritated. “I think I’ll just kill you both, stop you from causing me any more trouble.” The voice raises up into something not quite hysterical, but getting there. “Do you know how many hours I’ve lost because my men have been watching your dumb videos? How much money we’ve pissed down the drain?!”

The voice rambles on, but Hijikata doesn’t particularly know or care what it’s saying. He’s just staring into Gintoki’s eyes in the near-dark, kind of wondering how they ended up here and whether things are as bad as they seem, and admiring how Gintoki can make blood-soaked look good. _It brings out your eyes,_ he doesn’t say, partly because it’s dark and the blood looks kind of black in this light and so it’s not really true, but also because it’s a stupid thing to say. Isn’t it?

“I meant what I said, you know,” Gintoki murmurs, and there’s a kind of desperation behind it that seems like it’s supposed to be important, but damned if Hijikata can work it out through the agonised pounding of his head.

Hey, didn’t they break up? This doesn’t feel like they’ve broken up. 

“Any last words?” the voice says mockingly, and the pressure at his throat eases, the hand in his hair loosening slightly. “I’m feeling generous.”

_Ah, shit._

Hijikata’s still not sure if he can make his mouth form proper words right now, and full sentences are definitely out of the question. But there’s one thing that his mouth _can_ do, and so he throws himself forward face-first, smashing his lips against Gintoki’s face. There are surprised shouts around them, and the hand in his hair pulls back again, but not before he manages to get his tongue into Gintoki’s mouth for one glorious moment, and not before he catches Gintoki’s warm, bloody lip in his teeth.

Strong hands yank the two of them apart, and the blade is back at his throat. Blades, plural, now that he thinks of it.

“Dammit, Hijikata-kun,” Gintoki mutters with a strange little smile. “I’d just managed to resign myself to dying, too.”

Hijikata blinks against the killer headache and racks his brain. He’s feeling very confused right now, but it’s also like a fog is starting to lift. He kissed Gintoki in front of a bunch of other people for some reason, and it’s like the action somehow passed some sort of magical healing power directly into his skull.

Wait. No.

Is this some sort of protagonist power? Healing kisses? The restorative power of friendship, and other friendship-adjacent things that may or may not start with the letter L? Fuck, no!

He strangles a groan. This is exactly the kind of cheesy shit that Yorozuya would pull. _Fuck my life._

And wait, now that his senses are clearing, he realises that they are, in fact, about to die. He thinks he would’ve preferred the sweet bliss of the head injury, to be honest.

Still, at least this way he can look Gintoki steadily in the eye as he goes. All things considered, if he’s being honest with himself – and he’s pretty sure he is – if they both have to go at the same time, then this is how he wants it to go. Well, there would probably be more pleasant ways of dying with Gintoki, possibly involving handcuffs and more mayonnaise than is humanly edible. But no, this is good too. One last kiss, one last look at that stupid face, no regrets – yeah, he can handle that.

The blade cuts infinitesimally deeper into his skin. He tries to wriggle his fingers, one last futile attempt at escape – but either his hands have been bound so tightly behind his back that they’ve lost all feeling or his arms have been chopped off. Either way, this is it. There’s nothing else he can do.

_No regrets, huh?_

_… Eh, what the hell._

He smiles. Looks into Gintoki’s worried eyes one last time, and tries to look reassuring. Opens his mouth. “Hey, idiot. I lo–”

“What the hell is going on here?!”

Everyone freezes at the sound of the outraged yell behind them. It’s as if all the air has suddenly been sucked out of the vast space of the warehouse – and then the blade that had been pressing against his throat drops away, clanging to the ground. Hijikata blinks, looking at it where it’s glinting gently in the low light, before he manages to drag his aching eyes upward to the doorway of the warehouse, only to see –

_Kurogoma Katsuo?!_

The fucking boss of all the yakuza in Kabukichou is standing in the doorway, an outraged expression blazing beneath his seven-three hair parting, a – a lady? With a chin? – hanging off one arm and the leash of his ridiculously tiny dog wrapped around the other, and it’d be pretty fucking fair to say, Hijikata thinks, that he’s _not_ best pleased with the situation he’s walked in on. 

The goons that surround him and Gintoki are glancing at each other, uncertain, though some of them still look pretty inclined to belligerence – at least until a horde of other yakuza, presumably ones who’re still loyal to Kurogoma, crowd in behind him, swords drawn, faces glowering. 

“I said, what the hell is going on here?” Katsuo growls out again, advancing this time, pulling his lady friend and his dog along with him. 

“Be careful, Kacchan,” the lady simpers, and oh _God_ now Hijikata remembers where he knows her from – she’s one of Saigou Tokumori’s offsiders at his club: Azumi, Agomi – something like that, anyway. He supposes he should have known that chin anywhere, but in his defence, there’s kind of a lot going on right now. 

He chances a sideways glance at Gintoki to see if _he_ has any idea just what the fuck is happening, but Gintoki looks just as baffled as Hijikata feels – though as he watches Azumi and Kurogoma make their way across the floor towards them, he thinks he sees a lightbulb going off above Gintoki’s head, as if he’s _just_ figuring out a puzzle he’s been trying to put together for some time.

“Boss –” the head goon – the one who up until a second ago was menacing Hijikata – stammers out, but it’s pretty clear Kurogoma isn’t here to listen to excuses or explanations.

“I get hauled in here in the middle of my da—in the middle of my day off,” he hisses, raising a finger to point accusingly at the ringleader, “because Shirosuke suddenly sends me a thousand text messages saying _you’re_ about to completely fuck up our market for bootleg _Yorozuya vs Shinsengumi_ merchandise. Not to mention this fucking little sideline you’ve been running with the Harusame.”

Hijikata honestly wishes he could say he’s surprised, but – no, no, this is how it was always going to be. This is what his life has devolved into ever since he took up with – no, ever since he first laid eyes on – fucking Yorozuya. Somehow, it all seems inevitable: it started with him taking the entirely reasonable action of swinging a sword at an ostensible terrorist in a hotel corridor, and now he’s here, having his life saved by a yakuza boss because he needs him to not be dead so he can continue selling illegal videos of him rolling around on the ground and yelling at the man who, five seconds ago, he was just a moment away from telling he –

“Boss, it’s not like that –” The head goon tries again, visibly quailing, but Kurogoma cuts him off, snarling.

“Don’t bullshit me! I know exactly what you’ve been getting up to behind my back, after I specifically ordered that no one was to have anything to do with those Harusame scum – and now I find out about _this?_ ” He gestures down at where Hijikata and Gintoki are still kneeling on the floor, and Hijikata thinks they should probably start standing up at some point – “I’ve got a shipment of two thousand Gin-san dakimakura about to go on sale, and do you think anyone’s going to fucking buy them if he’s dead, you idiot?” Katsuo shrieks – and yeah, forget getting up off the floor; right now, Hijikata will just settle for sinking straight through it and into whatever hell lies beneath.

The head goon is still stuttering out excuses, but Hijikata doesn’t really care all that much. Mostly he just cares about the fact that he and Gintoki are still alive, and, from the looks of things, are likely to stay that way. Although Gintoki does appear to be swaying a little.

“You good?” he murmurs, and Gintoki nods with a smile that pretty much screams _Don’t think I didn’t hear what you almost said, Hijikata-kun_.

… Whatever. Now they’ve both blurted out something stupid and made damn fools of themselves – but it’s been something that he’s been stepping around mentally for at least the past month… and yet nothing really changed by saying it out loud, did it? What was he so fucking scared of? 

But still… having said it – having _admitted_ it – he’s not really in a hurry to repeat it anytime soon. Maybe sometime in the future – like about a hundred years from now – he could do it again, or expect Gintoki to return the favour. Right now, though, Hijikata’s happy with the memory of it, sitting warmly in his heart like a small, glowing, kindling spark. 

A sudden blaze of light has him squinting painfully – and he’s not the only one, if the confused curses around him are any indication. It takes him a long moment to realise that somebody’s finally had the bright idea of turning the lights on, and another moment to realise that the yakuza are just as surprised by it as he is. Which means that –

There’s a blur of movement before a red-headed dervish leaps up, delivering a solid roundhouse kick to the side of the head goon’s neck and dropping him like a sack of rice. Then it lands by Gintoki’s side, grabbing his head and yanking at his hair. 

“This is what happens when you disappear from the house and don’t tell Mami where you’re going,” Kagura bawls into his face, shaking his head back and forth. “What did you think you were doing, huh? You even took the toilet slippers with you, so we had to go down the stairs like barbarians.”

Hijikata tries to parse this and gives up, content in the knowledge that if China is here, then everything is more or less sorted. Not that he trusts her to bring any kind of subtlety or delicacy to the proceedings, but even if she _does_ succeed in reigniting whatever the hell was going on with the yakuza, he knows that she can take them out single-handedly without even breaking a sweat. Maybe they should just start bringing her along to Shinsengumi operations – if not for that reason, then because it would really, really piss off Sougo. 

He peers around, trying to see who else has come along for the free entertainment. If China is here, then that four-eyed kid must be lurking nearby as well, and maybe even his one-woman wrecking crew of a sister, and –

“ _TOSHIIIII!!!_ ”

And there it is, right on cue. Kondou slams into him with all the grace of a horny elephant, and okay, it kind of hurts, but he doesn’t really care. Getting a tear-stained, snotty hug from Kondou is something that he might outwardly roll his eyes at, but really, having Kondou blubber into your collar for any reason or no reason at all is just one of those things that defines being a part of the Shinsengumi, a crowd of whom are also standing in the doorway, swords drawn, having a stare-down with Kurogoma’s men. 

“I’m fine, Kondou-san,” he mumbles, as Kondou yanks him against his chest, rubbing his chin into the top of his head. 

“Toshi!” Kondou pulls back enough to stare him in the face, fingers clutching at his shoulders as if he’s worried that he’ll go up in smoke at the slightest loss of contact. “I’m so glad you’re safe! Never do something like that again!”

“What – like my job, you mean?” Hijikata pulls back a little – not that he doesn’t appreciate Kondou’s concern, but there’s a limit to how long he can get slobbered all over in front of literally everyone he knows. 

Kondou scrubs at his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Call for backup! We’d all come running, Toshi, you know that! I was in the middle of a strategically significant Uno game when I got the call saying you and Yorozuya were in trouble, and I dropped my hand and ran, even though I had two Draw 4s!”

… Yeah, he probably should’ve done that. He could’ve done it while he was running down to the docks, but, well, he’d been distracted by the thought that it was Gintoki, and that he couldn’t lose someone else without at least setting the record straight. 

In any case – he _did_ call for backup. Or, more to the point, backup called him.

 _Where_ is _that anpan-guzzling little good-for-nothing –_

“Vice-Chief!”

“Yamazaki.” He does his best to peer around Kondou’s head, though it’s not the easiest thing to do, given that Kondou is back to clutching him to his chest. “Where the hell were you?”

“Calling for backup, Vice-Chief!” Yamazaki stutters out. “I didn’t know where you and danna ran off to, so I had to wait and see where the yakuza went before I could tell the Chief where to go.”

“I see.” His ribs creak as Kondou squeezes him tighter, and his jaw creaks as Yamazaki strains the last remnants of his patience. “And you couldn’t have given us a hand when we were down by the river? You knew the yakuza were there to begin with, right?”

Yamazaki starts stammering excuses, all ‘can’t hold a sword right now, Vice-Chief’ _this_ and ‘carpal tunnel’ _that,_ but really, Hijikata’s beyond caring. He jerks his head irritably in dismissal, and Yamazaki wanders off to join what appears to be Katsura Kotarou, of all the people, who is currently demonstrating some extremely inappropriate hand gestures to Kurogoma with a deadly earnest expression on his face and way fewer clothes than could be considered appropriate on his body. Hijikata manages to pick out the words _sexual hubris_ and _water-based lubricant,_ and okay, he doesn’t need to hear any more of that. Also, he’s been kneeling here way too long and he can’t feel his legs.

“Oi. Kondou-san.”

“Mmph?” Kondou looks up from where he’s been burying his head in Hijikata’s shoulder, chin quivering, eyes wide and bloodshot.

“This is great and all, but, uh, I’d kind of like to get up.”

“Oh!” Kondou leaps to his feet. “Of course!”

He grabs Hijikata under the armpits and hoists him up, holding him steady for a moment until it’s apparent that his legs will hold him upright, even if he can’t feel them. Someone is sawing at the ropes around his wrists; a voice that’s way too polite to belong to anyone in this place says, “I’m glad you’re safe, Hijikata-san,” and okay, looks like the gang’s all here.

“Thanks,” he grunts, because Shinpachi’s not a bad kid, really, even if he _does_ spend way too much time around Yorozuya… though hopefully it’s instructive, even if only in a ‘how not to run your life’ kind of way.

He raises his hand to his pocket for a much-needed smoke… only to realise that his arms have gone completely dead. He swings them around from the shoulders, watching irritably as they flop about. Dammit.

But Kondou anticipates what he’s after before he can even open his mouth to ask, slipping a cigarette between his lips and lighting it for him, and Hijikata takes a long, happy drag.

“Ow! Watch it, you jerk sadist!”

Gintoki is also on his feet now, but, shockingly, it appears that Sougo is not so considerate a liberator as Shinpachi.

“I thought you might want a bit of rough treatment from someone who knows what they’re doing, danna, since Hijikata-san is so obviously lacking in that department.”

“Hey!” Gintoki snaps. “I’m an S, dammit! One hundred per cent pure! No additives!”

Sougo smiles. “Sure, danna.”

Whatever Yorozuya might say to that is lost as Azumi hurries over to Gintoki, tiny dog tucked under her arm. She starts solicitously dabbing at Gintoki’s face with the edge of her sleeve, turning his head this way and that and _tsk_ ing at the damage.

“Mademoiselle Saigou’s going to kill you for what you’ve done to your face, Paako-chan – and you, our star attraction!”

_… Paako-chan? And hang on, wait._

He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t working there anymore, _Paako-chan_.”

Gintoki scowls, trying to duck Azumi’s tenacious sleeve. “Well, I had to keep _someone_ in mayonnaise. And besides, I like the compliments.” 

There’re some choice things Hijikata could say to that, but right now, he supposes he should probably pay attention to what’s going on between Kurogoma and Kondou – the two of them are squaring up to each other, eyes narrowed, their men crowding in behind them.

“So, Shinsengumi,” Katsuo sneers, the scar across his face crinkling. “How’re we going to sort this out? The easy way, or the hard way?”

Kondou cocks his head a little, raising an eyebrow. “Some of your men almost killed my vice-chief, Kurogoma-san. _Is_ there an easy way out of this?”

Hijikata can see both groups of men tensing, fingers tightening around their swords, eyes moving back and forth, just waiting for a signal. His fingers twitch for his own sword, but it’s not where it should be – of course, one of those goons would have snatched it when he fell, and his hands don't feel right without it –

Kurogoma lets out a low laugh. “One of my men? I don’t see any of _my_ men in that lot over there – just a bunch of rabid lowlifes who can’t help but bite the hand that feeds them. But then, I’ve been meaning to do some housecleaning – I just had to wait for the right moment. Maybe it’s finally arrived.”

“Housecleaning, you say,” Kondou repeats, slow and thoughtful. “Things do seem like they’re in a mess right now. But I have your word you’re going to tidy up?”

Kurogoma nods, eyes still narrowed. “If you don’t believe it for your sake, believe it for mine. You think I want a mess like this in my house? You think I want the Shinsengumi sniffing around my business? Or the Harusame, for that matter?”

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Kondou says, raising a hand to stroke his chin. “Well. If it’s going to get taken care of, then I guess there’s no reason for the Shinsengumi to get involved. If they really aren’t your men, like you say.”

“They’re not. Not anymore. You have my word on that.” 

Hijikata watches as the two of them size each other up for a moment longer, the tension in the air thick enough to cut – before Kondou opens his mouth and lets out a raucous laugh. “Well then – it’s settled, isn’t it? Your problems are your problems – no need for us to get involved at all, right?”

The tension leaches from the air, and once again, Hijikata can only sit back and admire Kondou: this was a situation that could have so easily ended in more bloodshed, but he’d diffused it without a single sword raised. Kurogoma’s even laughing along with him – and Hijikata _hopes_ the man can be trusted to make good on his promise, though he seems like one of these old-school yakuza types who still think of their word as their bond or whatever.

Or maybe he’s just too fucking exhausted to care right now. 

He glances back over towards Gintoki, who looks about ten times worse than before now that he’s under the warehouse’s fluorescent lights, a slight sway betraying the fact that he’s almost out on his feet. Despite Azumi’s best efforts, there’s barely an inch of him that isn’t soaked in blood, and that inch is soaked in vomit.

But Kagura is hanging on to his waist like a limpet, yelling at him that he’s never to leave her sight again if this is the kind of mess he’s going to get himself into, while Shinpachi gazes at him disapprovingly from over his glasses, his arms crossed over his chest. It’s touching, in a disgusting kind of way – Hijikata knows just how bad Gintoki smells right now, and anyone who’ll willingly get that close to him must have a pretty insane level of devotion. 

He waits for Gintoki to stop rolling his eyes long enough to be able to catch his attention, but it takes a while – China is yelling loving abuse into one of Gintoki’s ears and Shinpachi into the other, and okay, he has a feeling that probably hurts more than half the injuries Gintoki’s received today. The combined volume those two can produce could probably double as some kind of sonic lance.

Eventually Gintoki manages to prise the two of them off, although they stay next to him with their arms crossed, like pissy little bodyguards.

Hijikata smirks. “You look like shit, Yorozuya.”

“Hmm? I look like shit, do I, Hijikata-kun? Well, you chose to go out with a piece of shit, so what does that say about _you,_ huh? You’re the one who _looooo_ –”

“Shut it!” he shrieks maybe just a little too loudly, but there’s not much else he can do – his hands still aren’t functional enough to flick the cigarette into Gintoki’s stupid leering face, and he knows that the kids can and will kick his ass if he takes even a step in their direction. “Fuck you, you goddamn asshole,” he adds for emphasis, and turns away with great dignity. Gintoki’s laughter rings in his ears, and he is _not_ smiling, dammit.

Looks like everything is sorted. The atmosphere in the room is almost jovial, apart from amongst those yakuza who’re getting the bollocking of a lifetime from Kurogoma. Everyone’s having a great time.

_All’s well that ends well, huh?_

“Shinsengumi! Hijikata-kun! Mister Vice-Chief-san!”

That voice – oh God –

He closes his eyes for a moment, before opening them again and forcing a smile onto his face. He supposes that the kid _did_ make sure that Kurogoma got here in time to save their skin, so he probably shouldn’t frighten him _too_ much.

The kid is fidgety as hell, holding out that goddamn poster to him with trembling hands. “Uh, sir, sorry to bother you, but – about that autograph – could I…?”

Hijikata tries very, very hard not to look at what’s being pressed into his face. “Uh –”

“Here, kid, let me take care of that.” He can hear Gintoki stumbling towards them, and oh shit, this can’t end well. “Unlike _some_ people here, I don’t consider myself above my fans.”

The kid’s face lights up. “Really, Yorozuya? You’ll sign it too?”

“Sure, kid.”

Hijikata tears his eyes away from the – the _that,_ and looks at Gintoki, who is reaching for the pen with shaky fingers. He is definitely not well, leaning heavily on Hijikata’s shoulder, and Hijikata can see China and Glasses peering at him with worried faces.

“Uh, Gintoki,” Hijikata says, “maybe you should save this for later?”

“Nonsense,” Gintoki slurs back. “Shirosuke-kun, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah!” Shirosuke-kun also looks to be on the verge of passing out, if for entirely different reasons. “Gosh, I can’t believe it!”

“Dear Shirosuke-kun,” Gintoki recites slowly as he writes. Hijikata peers over his shoulder at the bloody, barely legible scrawl. “Reach for the stars! Love, Yorozuya Gin-chan.”

Shirosuke-kun stumbles back a little as he takes the poster, thanking Gintoki profusely, and Hijikata’s pretty sure he can see actual love hearts in his eyes. Hijikata would be put out by Gintoki stealing his thunder and making him look like a killjoy, but mostly he’s just wondering if he’ll be able to catch the dumb bastard if he collapses.

“Hey, wait,” the kid says, his face the picture of confusion. “I think you made a mistake. You signed this ‘Shiroyasha’…?”

“Sure, that too,” Gintoki mumbles. “Enjoy! You can hang it on your cell wall, admire it every night before you go to sleep.”

“Cell… wall?”

“Okay, kid, we’re done here,” Hijikata says, giving him a quick shove and ignoring the wide-eyed look of terror on his face. His boss can reassure him later, but right now, there are bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that Kurogoma’s tiny dog has apparently escaped Azumi’s iron grip and is now darting its way between Gintoki’s legs, its leash apparently somehow having managed to get tangled around every obstacle it’s passed within a metre of.

“Meru-chan!” shrieks Azumi as she hurries over, grasping futilely for the end of the lead. “Meru-chan, get back here now, you – !”

It happens almost in slow motion: Gintoki’s almost comical double-take, the half-step backwards, the pinwheeling arms, the moment teetering on the brink before it all, inevitably, collapses.

And then time speeds up again, and Hijikata finds himself on his knees on the floor next to Gintoki. This is all incredibly stupid, but – Gintoki’s fine, right?

“Gintoki? Gintoki!”

Gintoki lies there unresponsive, eyes closed, and he’s just got to be a bit unconscious after all the excitement, right? A diminutive sausage dog can’t have succeeded where a stampede of yakuza have failed.

Speaking of the dog –

_Oh, shit._

He rolls Gintoki onto his side, only vaguely aware of the crowd gathering around them, and prepares for the worst.

The dog…

… is fine, apparently. Fine enough, at least, to deliver a massive bite right to Gintoki’s ass, digging its little needle teeth deep into the flesh, and okay, Gintoki’s still alive, if that scream’s anything to go by. 

“Nothing to see here, everyone,” he calls out, hoping that his voice comes through strong and clear, and not like that of a guy who just thought his love interest was killed by a sausage dog. “Give him some space, come on.”

The crowd moves back with a grumble, except for Azumi and Kurogoma, who rush forward and scoop the dog up, fussing over the mutt with _way_ too much concern.

The two of them glare down at Hijikata, eyes narrowed, and okay, getting beaten to death because of a tiny dog is only one step up from getting killed _by_ a tiny dog, and today has been really frigging stupid and needs to be over and done with already.

“I owed you guys one, given that you wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for problems in my own ranks,” Kurogoma says coldly, his hand stroking the dog, which seems entirely indifferent to the giant mess it’s caused. “Consider the debt repaid, seven for three.”

Wait, what? Does this mean that Hijikata owes Kurogoma… four-sevenths of a debt?! God, he hates fractions.

“Sure, whatever,” he mutters, knowing that he’s going to regret it later but unable to care. Kurogoma turns on his heel, Azumi following him with a sniffy little _hmph,_ and they stalk off, leaving Hijikata in blessed silence.

They have to get out of here, before anything else incredibly fucking stupid happens. He’s sick of it.

He ruffles Gintoki’s sticky, blood-caked hair a little, before forcing himself to his feet with a groan.

“Oi. China.” He jerks his thumb in Gintoki’s direction. “Pick up that rubbish and bring it outside, will you?”

“You can’t tell me what to do, tax thief!” she bellows, but she dutifully slings Gintoki over her shoulder and makes for the exit, yakuza and Shinsengumi alike parting before her. Hijikata follows at a slower pace, picking up Kondou and the others as he goes, Shinpachi trailing behind them. He has no idea where Katsura has got to, and frankly, he doesn’t want to know. He’s overlooked his presence before – really, what difference does one more time make?

It’s still dark outside, weirdly enough – it feels like tonight has lasted forever, but a quick check of his phone indicates that there are still several hours until sunrise. He really, _really_ needs a shower and a nap, and he doesn’t protest when Kondou opens the back door of his patrol car for him, ushering him inside.

Gintoki is already there, having been jammed unceremoniously inside by China, and is lying in a semi-conscious jumble on the back seat.

Hijikata thinks for a long moment about the complexities of getting Gintoki upright and strapped into a seatbelt, but really, it’s just too hard. No one could judge him if he just pulled Gintoki’s head onto his lap and let him lie there, right? And too bad if they do. Right now, he just doesn’t care.

They have way too much to talk about. Most of it is probably going to suck. But he thinks it’ll be worth it.

He rests a hand on the side of Gintoki’s ribcage, reassured by its steady rise and fall, and lets his eyes close.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY it’s at the end!! Thanks again to everyone who read this, sorry we kept making it longer and longer -___- And thanks for the reads, kudos and comments – they’re all really appreciated, and we really hope you enjoyed it!!
> 
> And thanks again so much to our fabulous beta rabbit_habits, who gave us so many helpful suggestions, and who beta-ed so much more than she originally signed on for :)

Contrary to popular opinion, Gintoki isn’t completely stupid; he had a solid temple school education, after all, and he _is_ sensitive to the concept of dramatic irony, now more than ever perhaps, as he lies in hospital with a debilitating butthole injury, having had the absolute shit kicked out of him by some two-bit yakuza and their little dog, too. 

It still doesn’t stop this situation from absolutely sucking, though, as he stares up at Shinpachi, Kagura and Otose where they’re crowded around his hospital bed, their expressions ranging from ‘contemptuous’ to ‘even more contemptuous’.

“What?” he asks irritably, as he manfully resists the urge to scratch at the bandages that’re covering eighty per cent of his arse right now. 

“What,” Otose asks, as she blows out cigarette smoke as if she’s not standing in the middle of a public hospital ward, “was the very last thing I said to you?” 

Gintoki bridles, indignation coursing through him – how dare this old bat speak to him this way?! “What the hell are you talking about?” he snarls. “Everything that’s happened is technically _your_ fault, since you were the one who withheld vital information from me about how that idiot broke his leg in the first place! If you’d just told me instead of carrying on like it was some kind of state secret, none of this would have fucking happened!”

Otose has no response to this at first – she simply stares at him with eyes like gimlets, before exhaling smoke from her illegal – or at the very least impolite – cigarette. “Perhaps I should have. But I never imagined you’d behave so incredibly stupidly, and I can imagine quite a lot.” She shakes her head slightly, her shoulders rising and falling in the smallest of sighs. “And I still don’t understand how exactly you managed to convince yourself the yakuza was to blame.”

 _Yeah, that’d be fucking Okita-kun’s interference,_ Gintoki thinks sourly – but honestly, there’s no need for anyone in the room to know he went off and spent an entire afternoon running amok on the docks on that little turd’s say-so. He’s done with these three looking at him with disapproval in their eyes and judgement in their hearts. There’s no need for him to divulge anything that’d only encourage them in that particular endeavour. He can just imagine Shinpachi’s face screwing up in censorious bewilderment as he asks _But_ why _would you listen to anything Okita-san says?_ while Kagura roars unintelligibly about him being in league with the devil and deserving everything he gets. 

No, there’s no point in doing any of that. Maybe he can just say _You’ll understand when you’re older, kids,_ and leave it at that. 

_Just you wait,_ he thinks, looking at them both through narrowed eyes. _Just you wait until the first time you lose your head over a boy, or a girl, or whatever the hell it is either of you like. You better fucking believe I’ll be there to make you suffer for it._

Of course, this _isn’t_ the first time he’s lost his head over a boy, but at least that last time he hadn’t had such a critical audience. It’d only been Zura then, and Zura had had the common decency to – mostly – keep his thoughts to himself. Which just goes to show how truly low he’s been brought, if he’s actually accusing Zura of having any kind of decency whatsoever. And had there been a body count this time? Gintoki supposes it depends on how Katsuo decides to deal with his wayward henchmen. Does it count if one of the bodies had very nearly been _his?_

In any case, Otose is still waiting expectantly, her unwavering gaze boring through his eyes and into his brain. He returns the favour with a level stare of his own, and does not at all squirm uncomfortably.

Like hell he’s going to give her what she wants! There’s no answer to the yakuza question that doesn’t make him look like a complete fucking idiot – or worse, a lovesick complete fucking idiot – and so he dodges the question with a suavity that astonishes even himself.

“How the hell did you know what happened to him, anyway?”

Okay, so maybe he hasn’t fooled her quite so much as he had hoped. The look she gives him very clearly says _Do you think I was born yesterday?_ , and the look he gives her back says _No, I think you were born back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, you old hag,_ and they could keep this up all day, but thankfully she decides to have mercy on him.

“We heard him crashing around in the alleyway and went out to investigate.” The corners of her eyes crinkle in amusement. “He refused to take an ambulance, so Tama wheeled him to hospital in her cart.”

_That’s – that’s kind of cold! But wait –_

“Why didn’t I know about any of this? If he was there, I must’ve been there.”

Otose’s expression is one of incredulous disdain as she puffs away on her cigarette. “That stupid fool insisted on us not going and getting you, and like an idiot I decided it was none of my business. And besides which, the last time I tried to get you up at a decent hour, you said that you don’t get out of bed for less than fifty thousand yen on public holidays.”

 _Well, I obviously would have for this, you lunatic,_ Gintoki thinks… but he doesn’t want to _tell_ her that, so instead he says, “And fair enough! Or don’t you believe in overtime wages on public holidays for the hard-working underclass?”

“Idiot! The last public holiday was weeks before that!” Otose slaps her hand down on his arm, and _ow_ – for someone so ancient, she sure can pack a punch when she wants to. “I would’ve thought that the crashing and screaming would’ve been enough to get your lazy arse out of bed, but apparently I was wrong.”

He shrugs helplessly. “What can I say? Gin-san’s a heavy sleeper. Always has been.”

He does feel pretty shitty about it, now that he knows. Heavy sleeper he may be in general, but he’s always had a subconscious ear for danger, whether it be the approach of a rampaging Amanto horde or the perilous decrescendo of an ice cream truck retreating into the distance. But to think that he slept through Hijikata breaking his leg – 

_Although…._

He slowly puts the pieces together in his head, lines up dates and times. And, uh. Okay. He’s pretty sure the incident in question took place the morning after a truly _spectacular_ all-nighter that had only ended just as the sun was peeking over the horizon.

How could he be expected to wake up after _that?!_ He’d barely been able to walk once he finally did manage to rouse himself, and probably Hijikata had been in a similar state. No wonder he’d tried to take the shortest route to the ground.

Otose is still giving him a meaningful stare – seems to be an awful lot of that going around today, and hey, he’s the one in hospital, why is he getting the third degree?! – but then she sighs and looks down. “Anyway, like I said, he didn’t want us to tell you what happened, which is why I kept my mouth shut once you eventually woke up. He said he was going to tell you in his own goddamn time.” She huffs a laugh. “Normally I would tell you that a man who takes his time is one you should keep around, but there’s such a thing as taking things too far.”

He’s just going to pretend that he didn’t hear that – and anyway, does this mean that it’s actually all Hijikata’s fault, given that he not only refused to tell Gintoki how he injured himself, but forbade the old hag from doing the same? Plus, he has to appreciate the rich irony of the fact that Hijikata had only snuck out the window in the first place in order to avoid Otose, only to get more of her than anyone should reasonably be expected to endure at such a godforsaken hour of the morning.

So Gin-san was right all along… although it doesn’t feel like much of a victory. Mainly, he just feels annoyed and maybe even the tiniest bit guilty, which is never a good combination. In any case, this is very much a discussion that he doesn’t want to have anymore, lest his self-esteem be entirely scrubbed away, and so he turns to Shinpachi, who has been blessedly quiet up until now.

“So, Pattsuan. Anything nice you want to say to poor injured Gin-san? Got any, ah, get-well-soon gifts tucked away in there?” He attempts to peer behind Shinpachi, but there doesn’t appear to be anything hidden behind his back, and Gintoki tries not to look too disappointed. “The cafeteria here does great sugar packets, if you want to pick some up the next time you’re down there.”

Ignoring this completely reasonable request, Shinpachi crosses his arms and sets his jaw. Gintoki braces himself for a tirade, but, shockingly, it doesn’t come; when Shinpachi opens his mouth, his voice is calm, level. It’s… it’s _creepy._

“Have you learned your lesson, Gin-san?”

Lesson? What lesson? Not to ever, _ever_ let any of his nearest and dearest know who he’s fucking? Yeah, Gin-san already got an A+ in that subject.

Shinpachi sighs, obviously realising that he’s not going to get an answer at all, let alone a useful one. “You need to not ruin good things when you find them, Gin-san.” His eyes narrow a little. “Especially when they actually bring us food.”

_Hey!_

There are a ton of things here that he could address – again, why is it all Gin-san’s fault? Why is Hijikata apparently some delicate flower that Gintoki has apparently despoiled with his filthy fingers, and not a grown man with a sharp sword and an unhealthy fixation on mayonnaise?! – but he chooses to focus on the last one, because seriously, what the fuck.

“Gin-san brings you food! Gin-san does nothing _but_ bring you food! He spends all his hours slaving away in order to keep you both fed!” He points accusingly at Kagura, who stares back at him with an incredibly annoying dead-eyed expression that he’s pretty sure she learnt from him. “You try pouring all your time and energy into filling that bottomless pit! Gin-san is an old man – his joints can’t take it anymore!”

It’s true! He’s campaigned at the pachinko parlours for some left-handed machines in order to ease the strain, but they just won’t listen!

Shinpachi won’t budge on this one, though, jutting out his chin, and – huh. When did Shinpachi grow a spine?

… Probably during one of those times when the Yorozuya offices were off-limits because Gin-san was either giving or receiving the pounding of a lifetime. On reflection, he hasn’t seen that much of Shinpachi and Kagura over the past couple of months, and when they _have_ been together, he’s been somewhat mentally absent. Probably good for Shinpachi to spend time with other people instead of hanging around at the Yorozuya from dawn till dusk, but still, maybe Gintoki should spend a bit more time with the kids after all this is over. His life can’t _entirely_ revolve around Hijikata’s dick, tempting though it sounds. Just a few nights a week, plus weekends. They can sort out custody arrangements later.

Anyway, Shinpachi is still glaring at him, taking time out from his busy crossing-his-arms-over-his-chest schedule in order to push his glasses up his nose. “Hijikata-san brought me lemons when I had scurvy due to eating nothing but rice for weeks on end.”

“Like I said, he’s a keeper,” Otose interjects helpfully, blowing smoke in Gintoki’s face.

_No one asked you, old hag! And also, what the fuck?! Why is Gin-san being left out of this narrative?_

“Hey!” he says indignantly. “I bought you a whole bag of lemons, you ingrate!”

“Lemon Mintias!” Shinpachi snaps back, and okay, his hard-won self-control is clearly near breaking point. “You bought me lemon Mintias! And then you ate half of them yourself, and Kagura-chan ate the other half!”

“Close enough!”

He’s arguing out of habit, but he can admit that _maybe_ Shinpachi has a point. _Maybe_ Gin-san is not quite the most responsible parental-substitute-whatever-the-hell-he-is at all times. But that’s okay, he sees what Shinpachi is getting at.

“So if I keep that idiot around, he can pay for your food and medical expenses, is that what you’re saying? I’m off the hook for all that junk?”

“I would prefer it if you actually took responsibility for us yourself,” Shinpachi mutters. “But if it means that we can eat proper food and you’re not alone and miserable, then yes, I think keeping Hijikata-san around is a good idea.”

Gintoki blinks at him, unable to tell if Shinpachi actually wants to see more of Hijikata or if he just wants to skive off his sweet government salary. Knowing Shinpachi, it’s probably more of the former – in what little non-sexy time Hijikata’s spent at Gintoki’s place, that tax thief has been spending a disturbing amount of it arguing otaku shit with the resident expert. Shinpachi probably enjoys having a reasonably attractive, manly, sword-wielding nerd who managed to score the hottest piece of ass in town around the place as a kind of aspirational figure, and it’s a bit weird, now that he thinks about it. Oh, well – the kid could probably do worse.

“Gin-san,” says Shinpachi, and he bends over in a solemn bow. “Please do not break up with Hijikata-san again.”

Gintoki… really doesn’t know how to respond to that. This quiet, reasonable plea is worse than a hysterical tirade! And he didn’t break up with Hijikata, anyway! Fuck this!

But he’s too tired to get into an argument about it now – better to just give the kid what he wants. “Uh… I’ll try,” he mutters, and apparently that’s good enough for Shinpachi, because he nods decisively.

There’s one more person in the room who needs to do their worst, and so he turns to Kagura, who has been worryingly quiet this whole time. “And you? Anything horrible you want to say to Gin-san? Might as well get it out of your system now, since I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t care what you do,” she says with an indifferent yawn, before she starts picking her nose. “If you want to break up with Toshi, you’ll have to up your game, though. He took us out for Kobe beef. When have _you_ taken us out for Kobe beef, huh?”

He sputters in indignation, even as a voice in his head says _Yeah, that was a good night_. Hijikata had taken them all out under some ridiculous pretext – something about the Shinsengumi having extra money in their monthly budget that needed to be spent by the end of the week. Gintoki had been too busy gorging himself to think about it too hard at the time, but at the end of the night, he’d noticed that Hijikata had definitely paid for it in cash and had waved away a receipt. The thought had disappeared from his mind straight after, given that he was more concerned with just how the hell he was going to get himself home after having eaten his own body weight in premium beef, but now….

 _There was that time we just_ ran into him _at the conbini as well,_ Gintoki thinks, as he turns his head briefly to gaze out of the window. _And then there was that time at the onsen. Oh, and that time he stepped in when Kagura was causing a scene at the post office because they wouldn’t let her mail kerosene to her idiot father since she’d heard it was a rubbing cure for baldness on some godforsaken website…._

That bastard is really just a giant sappy idiot, isn’t he? Gintoki had honestly thought that everything between the two of them had just been about the fucking, but thinking back, he realises that Hijikata has somehow managed to worm his way into Gintoki’s life without him even noticing. Or maybe he’s just always been there, and they’d both been oblivious to it until it was shoved in front of their faces.

Kagura bounces onto the end of his bed while she yammers away about how much better – i.e., richer – Hijikata is than Gintoki, apparently not understanding that hospital beds are for the patients, not the visitors, and his butt injury cries out in protest. It’s nice to see everyone and all, but God, he and his butt just need some quiet time.

“Fine! Fine! I’ll stay with him so that you can scab free food off him. But in return, you have to get off the bed, you beast!”

Her transition from bed to floor is stunning in its alacrity, and Gintoki breathes a quiet sigh of relief. 

“Anyway, we have to go – we’ve got a job!” Kagura says as she spins her way towards the door, grabbing Shinpachi’s sleeve as she goes. 

“A job?” He can’t help but be surprised. Work’s been a bit thin on the ground lately, even by his standards. How the hell have these two managed to land a job without him around to smooth-talk the client into handing over their cash?

“Yeah!” Shinpachi smiles, apparently having forgiven Gintoki for the heinous sin of conducting his relationships according to his own rules, instead of running his decisions past everyone he knows first. “The Shinsengumi hired us to pull down a bunch of posters that’re stuck up all over town. They’re paying really well too.”

It takes him a moment, but it eventually comes together in his head. He forces down a smile.

“Posters, huh? What kind of posters?”

“Just… posters,” Shinpachi says delicately, his eyes suddenly fixated on the bedside table.

“The ones with pictures of Toshi's butt!” Kagura practically yells.

“Mm-hmm. And the Shinsengumi asked you to do this?” 

“Yeah,” says Shinpachi, still averting his eyes somewhat. “Yamazaki-san hand-delivered us a request that had the official Shinsengumi seal on it. It wasn’t signed, but it must’ve come from pretty high up.”

_Pretty high up, huh. Yeah, I bet it did._

Well, if Hijikata wants to pay these two to take care of his extremely embarrassing dirty work for him, then who, really, is Gin-san to complain? He doesn’t doubt for a moment that whatever money they earn will go straight into Shinpachi’s bank account instead of anywhere actually useful, but… what the hey. The little twerp has earned it.

Kagura, apparently full of zeal for the job, has finally managed to drag Shinpachi from the room to make her whooping, clattering way down the hospital corridor. Gintoki would _almost_ be tempted to heave a sigh of relief before thinking about calling a cute nurse to come and plump his pillows and lean over just enough to show a glimpse of her chest as she rests her smooth, cool hand upon his forehead… but even _that_ pleasant daydream has been ruined for him now, because any nurse he tries to picture these days just has Hijikata’s face and Hijikata’s chest and Hijikata’s hand, and that uptight prude has made it more than clear on a number of occasions that he’s absolutely not coming to the party on that scenario.

In the end, he just lets out an almighty sigh and turns to face the last remaining vulture in the room, standing straight as a pillar next to his bed, if a pillar could have a penetrating gaze and a smoking problem. 

“Don’t think you have to wait around here on my account,” Gintoki says, after a moment of silence. “By all means, feel free to leave me in peace at any time.”

“Fine.” Otose crushes out her cigarette, using his little plastic hospital water cup as an ashtray. “But Gintoki, if you want my advice –” and he absolutely doesn’t, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to get it anyway “– you’ll appreciate the good things you have, since you never know how long you’ll have them.”

Gintoki swallows past the cold, sickening lump that rises in his throat and chokes down his first response, which goes something along the lines of, _Don’t you think I know that? Just what the hell do you think all of this has been about, anyway?_ and instead just turns to look out the window again, at the tree that’s growing in the garden outside, at the little birds that are frolicking in its branches. 

“And if you can’t do that,” Otose raspingly continues a moment later, “then I’d be happy to take him off your hands for you.”

Gintoki thinks he can actually hear his spine creak as he slowly turns his head to stare at her incredulously, and _fuck,_ he _had_ to have misheard that, didn’t he? But oh no, oh _shit,_ the old bag’s eyes are glinting with what is _definitely_ mischievousness, and oh _fuck,_ now that he thinks about it, he realises with a surge of nausea that Hijikata is _exactly_ her type, and oh God, just, fuck his life – or perhaps this _isn’t_ his life at all, and he did in fact die on the cold concrete floor of that warehouse and is now in his own highly personalised Hell.

That would explain _a lot._

He gawps at her in silence a moment longer, disgust and horror doing battle within him, as he desperately runs contingency plans through his head if he ever happens to catch her batting her falsies at _his_ fancy man – _maybe I could send Zura her way? Zura would probably_ love _her; she’s a widow and she’s over the hill, shit, why haven’t I ever thought of this before?_ – before realising the reason that this plan will never come to fruition is that he has absolutely no interest in throwing up all over himself. 

“Well,” he says, clamping his hands over his face so that he can at least pretend that he’s not trapped in a room with a horny old harridan. “If you’re looking for a way to earn some money on the side, you can come down to the hospital on the regular and moonlight as an emetic. Because God knows _I_ want to throw up right now.”

“Then my work here is done.” There’s a smile in her voice that sounds genuine, rather than cutting, but he’s not going to uncover his face long enough to find out. Her voice softens further, and he strains to make out the words. “One day you’ll be old too, Gintoki, provided that you don’t do something stupid enough to get even _you_ killed. And better to be a horny, besotted old fool than a sad and lonely one. Anyone who says otherwise can go to hell.”

“I change my mind,” he mumbles through his fingers. “You should write greeting cards instead.”

“Maybe I will,” Otose muses. “Which one do you think would sell better? _Congratulations on Finally Reaching Emotional Maturity About a Decade Too Late,_ or _I’m Happy You’re Getting Laid, But Please Note That the Walls Here Are Very Thin_?”

“I’m partial to _Get the Hell Out of My Hospital Room, You Old Bag, and Make Sure That My Fridge Is Fully Stocked with Strawberry Milk Upon My Return,_ personally.”

“That might be a bit too specific to make a good profit, but I’ll keep it in mind.” Her footsteps pad across the room, pausing at the door. “Take care of yourself, Gintoki.”

How does she manage to make it sound like a threat? “Sure. Whatever.”

The door slides closed behind her, and he lets his hands fall from his eyes, blinking at the light. It’s too damn early in the day for deep thoughts, and his butt really _does_ hurt, so he rolls over onto his side so that he can more comfortably stare out the window and watch the sparrows bouncing along the tree branches.

The change in angle brings into view not only his bedside table, but also the various gifts jammed on top of it.

There’s a huge bouquet of pink lilies from Saigou and a card signed by all the ladies at the club, along with a vaguely threatening message that he’s missing his shifts and his customers are asking after him, so he better hurry up and get better soon; a huge gift from that deranged ninja that he hasn’t even bothered to unwrap, since it’s obviously a bunch of paddles, some coils of rope and a collection of ballgags (which Gintoki spends a bare second contemplating before deciding no, no, it would be _way_ too weird); a note from Seita begging for help with his homework (and oh look, Tsukuyo’s even written a nice little thing at the bottom too – _‘You’re an idiot’_ ); a pile of strawberry Kit Kat boxes now sadly divested of any and all contents that Otae re-gifted to him after a customer first gifted them to her, not that Gin-san’s fussy about that kind of thing at all; and a three-page tirade from Zura that he hasn’t bothered to read the whole way through yet about how it’s somehow _his_ fault that idiot’s Uno winning streak had faltered and he’d ended up down to a single sock with only one of Elizabeth’s signboards to uphold the dignity of the Jouishishi. 

Seems like everyone in Kabukichou and beyond has heard about his butt-related mishap and, quite rightly, is rushing to send their condolences for one of the district’s few remaining natural wonders.

Everyone, that is, except the one person who probably has the most reason to be concerned about the state of Gin-san’s assets.

Not that he’s needy or anything! And he knows that overt displays of affection aren’t Hijikata’s style. It’s just that it would’ve been nice to get, well, _anything,_ up to and including actually seeing the bastard’s face. In a room bursting with get-well-soon presents and well-wishers, Hijikata’s been conspicuous by his absence, and Gintoki’s feeling maudlin enough about it that he’d be happy with a scowl and a grunted _Hey, asshole_. Hell, that jerk can blow smoke in his face for a full five minutes, and he won’t even complain!

And sure, he knows that Hijikata’s got that whole ‘gainful employment’ thing going. But all the rest of the Shinsengumi have dropped by to give him their best wishes and keep him up-to-date with all the latest on their stalking/badminton/sadism/being bald, so they can’t be _that_ busy. Gintoki’s not prone to overreactions or jumping to unreasonable conclusions, but he _is_ starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Hijikata’s… got cold feet? Which would be just like that emotionally unavailable prick! Not like Gin-san – Gin-san is open all hours.

He sighs, wishing that he could reach over and open the window for some fresh air. As much as he’s bitched about the constant parade of visitors stomping through his room, they’ve been providing a much-needed distraction from his own thoughts. Now that it’s quiet and he’s not doped up on painkillers, all kinds of junk is whirling through his mind, the ‘Do Not Open’ mental box disgorging all of its horrors into every corner of his psyche. He shouldn’t be lying here and recognising that he’s scared that Hijikata, now that he’s had a few days to pause, reflect and re-think, might have decided to call things off! What kind of high-EQ bullshit is that?! Things were so much easier when he could just mentally scream and thrash about like a cranky toddler and dump all the blame on someone else.

“You look like someone just took a dump in your parfait, and you’re trying to work out which parts are still edible.”

In the version of events that exists inside his head, Gin-san turns coolly and calmly towards the door at the sound of that voice, the very picture of suave nonchalance; maybe he even raises a rakish eyebrow and says, _Fancy seeing you here._ In reality, he jerks his head around so fast he pretty much severs his brain from its stem and possibly knocks a few vertebrae out of whack along with it. 

“Agh – buh –”

He hisses and gingerly touches his aching neck, while simultaneously trying to form a witty comeback and focus on the figure in the doorway. It shouldn’t be possible for anyone to lean so sexily against a doorframe – especially in a hospital – and yet, somehow the bastard is doing a damn fine job of it, his Shinsengumi jacket draped over his shoulder like he’s posing for a magazine cover, cravat missing and collar unbuttoned. The worst part is that Gintoki knows that he’s not even trying – the oblivious jerk most likely wants to project ‘look at the bullshit I have to put up with’, and has instead somehow ended up at ‘take me now’.

And Gin-san would! He really would! But his poor, abused bod just can’t quite manage it at this exact moment.

Hijikata pushes himself up off the doorframe with a sigh that doesn’t seem to be _completely_ dripping with contempt and steps into the room. The movement brings his other arm into view, and suddenly Gintoki is wide awake, because is that a –

Hijikata hauls the fruit basket up and drops it onto the mattress with a _thud_ that rattles the bedframe.

“This is what it’s supposed to look like, idiot.”

 _Shit, he’s_ still _holding a grudge over that?!_

Gintoki peers inside the basket. It’s a veritable cornucopia, every possible type of fruit spilling from its depths: apples, bananas, grapes, pears, peaches, pineapples….

He plucks out one of the bottles of mayonnaise. “I didn’t know these were in season.”

“Mayonnaise is always in season.”

“Uh-huh.” Gintoki tosses it back into the basket. It’s the thought that counts, right? He’s the bigger man today. Well, he’s always the bigger man in a more literal sense – he thinks – but today he’s aiming for the literal-metaphorical one-two punch. Personal growth, and all that.

Besides, letting Hijikata liberate him of the mayonnaise that he gifted to him in the first place will probably help get him into that bastard’s good books, so, whatever.

“Enjoy,” Hijikata mutters in the general direction of the bed, and aww, it’s almost cute, how much he’s pretending he doesn’t care.

“Is this your attempt to bring some ‘dere’ to your ‘tsun’, Hijikata-kun? Because it’s lousy.”

Hijikata’s eye twitches, and he looks like he’s about to rise to the bait, but then he releases a slow breath and shakes his head. “Not that you deserve it, but – here.” He reaches around to unhook something from his belt, then tosses it onto the bed. 

_Lake Touya._

“Kondou-san got hold of it before that Shirosuke kid could nab it and keep it as a souvenir for his Gin-san shrine or something,” Hijikata continues, lighting up a cigarette and continuing to avoid eye contact.

There are a lot of things Gintoki could say to that: _Didn’t know you cared, Hijikata-kun; Oh, I can use it to replace the one that was propping the window open, since it’s getting a bit weather-damaged; Great, now I have something to cut this giant fucking pineapple open with_.

But instead, he decides to just go with, “Thanks.”

Hijikata blinks, apparently forgetting in his shock that he was avoiding eye contact. “Uh… you’re welcome.”

This isn’t like them! It’s fucking weird! And he knows that he’ll be lucky if this streak of reasonable adult behaviour lasts more than five minutes. But no, despite his best efforts, the last words Otose spoke to him before she moseyed casually out the door are still echoing through his head like some kind of chilling, ghostly knell. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, Hijikata gnawing on the end of his cigarette, eyes wide. In the end, Hijikata breaks first – as Gintoki knew he would – and moves the fruit basket onto the floor with a sigh, before sitting down on the foot of the bed. He’s just close enough that Gintoki can feel the slightest hint of warmth from his thigh seeping through the blankets, and it’s all he can do to not shuffle closer.

“So,” Hijikata says, and it sounds like he’s dragging the word up his throat and out of his mouth through sheer stubborn bloody-mindedness. His eyes meet Gintoki’s once more, and okay, yeah, he’s clearly set his mind on seeing this whole talk-it-through thing to the end, no matter how horrible and awkward it may be. This is what Gintoki gets for dating a Taurus – and someone with blood type *, at that. Why couldn’t he just fall for someone the stars had fated to be a hot commitment-phobe instead, who’d just whirl into his life, completely ruin it, and then whirl out again, leaving him with nothing but spicy memories and maybe a sexy rash? Where are all the Scorpios when he needs them?!

But no – that would be all too easy. And something Gintoki has just had to come to terms with about himself is that apparently he never does things the easy way. Not now, and not back then, either – otherwise why on earth would he have put himself through all that shit? He’d fought with Takasugi from the moment they’d met until the moment Takasugi had disappeared out of his life. Not that Gintoki could blame him for that, since he would have been more than happy to never see himself again at that point too – which he _had_ tried, but things hadn’t gone as he’d planned, since they almost never do, and now he has to live with the sound of some old crone in his head telling him to _take care of himself._

As if he hadn’t tried! That’s what this whole stupid thing has been about! He’d spent the last three days drunk to try to forget about it, but unfortunately for him, he’d passed through a highly regrettable ‘drunken clarity’ phase on his journey towards total paralysis and had spent quite a lot of time explaining to… to… some guy? Maybe the bartender? Or maybe it had been a potted plant?... that _these things always turn to shit anyway_ , and _it’s for his own good, you know?_ and _better to get it out of the way now, before it gets too serious, right?_ Either the bartender had nodded in agreement or the potted plant had sagely waved its fronds at him, because certainly it had all seemed very valid and sensible at the time. And at least this way, he’d been able to do it before things got too far, instead of waiting for the end to catch him up and overtake him, like it had last time. 

Eyeing Hijikata as he fidgets with his cigarette, looking _stupidly_ good in the morning sunshine with the way it slides through his hair and makes the waft of his cigarette smoke look like a floating halo, Gintoki realises he’s not going to get out of this one quite so easily as he had thought. He tries to ignore the tightening in his stomach that may or may not be the result of the hospital breakfast he ate a few hours ago. 

“Yorozuya.” Hijikata’s still looking somewhat distantly out the window when he finally starts talking, the words emerging slightly muffled from around his cigarette. “Look. Whatever… _happened_ … in the past is none of my business. It doesn't matter. I’m over it.” He fumbles for a cigarette and seems somewhat surprised to find the one he actually hasn’t finished smoking still sitting in his mouth – and Gintoki would love to laugh, he really would, except someone seems, rudely, to have filled his guts up with cold concrete.

“What I mean is,” Hijikata says after a slight pause, “is that it’s not a problem for me if it’s not a problem for you.” Finally, he turns his head to look at Gintoki, the red line across his throat where the yakuza fucker had been pressing his sword moving as he swallows. 

Gintoki’s mouth goes dry as he realises he knows what this is, because he’d done the exact same thing not so long ago, about two months ago in fact, when they’d drunkenly stumbled back to his place on that first night. It’s an out – the same kind that he’d tried to offer Hijikata when the booze and the weird tension and the crazed desperation had worn off just enough for both of them to start having second thoughts. Hijikata hadn’t taken it then, though – but Gintoki had still seen him thinking about it and realising what Gintoki was offering him, the same way Gintoki realises it now. He swallows. 

This is it, isn’t it? The moment of truth has arrived not with a bang, but with a simple proposition and the need for an honest answer. If it really were just about Hijikata being fine with that whole _thing_ with Takasugi, he could shrug and laugh it off to a degree… but he knows it’s actually a question of _Do you want to be with me,_ and that’s way more difficult than he could’ve imagined.

Of course, the sex is great. And Hijikata’s not exactly a challenge to look at – Gintoki’d revised him up to at least a seven-point-five at some point in the past few days, although maybe that was just the breakup and the alcohol talking. He is, if Gintoki’s being entirely honest with himself, kind of fun to be around – occasionally even in ways that don’t involve needling him until he loses his shit. The kids seem to like him. He risks his life about as often as Gintoki risks his own, so there’s no mismatch on that front.

If there’s one thing that their whole little yakuza misadventure has really driven home, though, it’s that Gintoki really, _really_ doesn’t like the thought of living a life that doesn’t have Hijikata in it. He never would’ve thought that that idiot would be elevated to anything even approaching the same level as Otose, Shinpachi, Kagura – what the hell, and Zura, when he doesn’t want to kill that idiot himself – in his personal hierarchy… and yet, the sight of that blade at his throat had been like a red flag to a bull. It’s rare that his brain goes into panic mode during battle, but that’s exactly what it had done when Hijikata’s life had been under threat, and the fear that he felt at that moment is what scares him the most now.

He’s being given a second chance that even he can admit he probably doesn’t deserve… and he’s also being given a chance to turn it down gracefully. And he kind of wishes that Hijikata hadn’t given him that second option, because he really _is_ almost tempted to take it. He won’t be able to write it off as a casual fuckbuddy kind of relationship this time, he thinks, with a cold, squirmy feeling deep in his gut; they’ve both said too much and know too much now. Sure, he _could_ laugh it off as some drunken blabbering, and he’s sure Hijikata’s got enough self-respect to pretend to believe it and never bring it up again… but they’d both _know_.

_Gah, did he have to dump all of this on me all at once? Work up to it, dickhead! Did Gin-san teach you nothing of foreplay?!_

Maybe this is for the best, though. Yes or no. Do or die. No dithering, no obfuscating.

Hijikata is still watching him, expression becoming more guarded with each passing second, and Gintoki kind of hates that his delay in answering is the reason for it.

And really, doesn’t that answer his question?

Besides which, Otose will cut off his balls if he fucks this up again, he just knows it. 

He takes a deep breath, his ribs suddenly feeling too tight, and ah, fuck it.

“It’s not a problem for me, Hijikata-kun.”

He can feel the infinitesimal sag in the mattress as Hijikata relaxes, hears the creak of the frame, and watches with a sappy kind of affection as Hijikata lets his eyes close for a moment that’s only slightly longer than a blink. The weight in his gut has lifted, and sure, it’s kind of been replaced with a terror in his chest that’s set his heart off into a feisty little rhumba, but he’s okay. He thinks. It’s not like the last two months have been horrible or anything. He could keep doing that for a while longer. 

He takes the opportunity to shuffle over ever so slightly, just enough so that his leg presses against Hijikata’s thigh through the blanket. He’d gotten so used to the idea that it was all over and that he’d never be able to touch Hijikata again apart from the occasional thrown punch that he finds himself greedy for it now, but it’s probably just a bit too soon to move on to groping.

Hijikata gives him a knowing little smirk – like that bastard wasn’t just sighing in relief at the idea of being able to keep Gin-san in his heart and his bed! – and settles himself more comfortably. “Okay, well, good,” he mutters. “Now, next thing –”

“There’s more?!” Gintoki wails, raising his hands and clawing his fingers through his hair. He absolutely cannot, will not, do any more emotional honesty today. He’s in hospital! His butt hurts! He saved this bastard’s life – prolonging it until help arrives counts, dammit – and this is how he’s repaid?!

“Huh?” Hijikata blinks. “Of course. What – did you think that was it? You think you get to just fling around accusations of blanket hogging with impunity, like you don’t leave fucking crumbs in the futon and never replace the toilet roll and have empty milk cartons sitting on every available surface? Not to mention all the times you’ve begged me to cover your groceries because you’re, quote, ‘a little short this month.’”

 _Oh, so it’s like that, is it?_ Gintoki stares at him, narrowing his eyes. Fine, so it’s decided: now he’s locked that piece of ass down, he can go back to annoying the hell out of Hijikata. Bastard loves it, after all.

“Hey, don’t be like that,” Gintoki snaps, kicking him a little through the blanket. “Being a broke loser is all part of Gin-san’s charm! You knew that going in!”

Hijikata’s mouth twitches, and it’s definitely more of an amused twitch than an annoyed one. “Being broke is one thing. Watching you repeatedly shoot yourself in the foot to the point where those kids are actually going hungry is another.”

“You look at them and tell me either of them are going hungry,” Gintoki retorts. “Plump as hams, both of them. Anyway,” he wiggles his foot a little against Hijikata’s thigh, which earns him an annoyed scowl – Hijikata doesn’t actually move _away,_ though – “I hear they’re off earning their own money now. Some job taking down horrendously embarrassing and reputation-destroying posters. Should be plenty of work in that – it’ll probably take them days, maybe even _weeks_ to get rid of all of them.”

 _That_ shuts Hijikata up – his lips clamp down around his cigarette before he goes back to looking out the window, though it doesn’t do any good: Gintoki can see his ears turning red from here. He wiggles his foot again, and this time Hijikata slaps at it a bit, snarling out, _Cut it out, you sex pest,_ which Gintoki thinks is _much_ more revealing of Hijikata’s mindset than his own, but he doesn’t really care.

“Okay, how about this,” Hijikata says eventually, digging his thumb into Gintoki’s wandering foot until he yelps in pain and withdraws to a safe distance. “I know I already said this to you once, but I don’t think you quite heard me, what with the alcohol poisoning and all, so I’ll say it again: don’t go sticking your nose into Shinsengumi stuff that doesn’t involve you. I need to be able to trust you not to interfere.” He looks serious in a way that he rarely does, and okay, _maybe_ Gintoki may have overstepped the line just a little by going and beating the living crap out of a bunch of yakuza. “Unless we ask for help or it’s clear that we’re going to die without it, back off, yeah? I don’t come to your work and rescue your clients’ cats.”

“Kind of wish you would,” Gintoki replies, because hey, free money, _and_ he gets to watch Hijikata’s butt as he climbs trees in search of ill-behaved felines? He’d be stupid not to take him up on the offer. “But yeah, yeah, I get it. Fine. I’ll trust you to do your job, and in return, you can trust me enough to tell me when you’ve injured yourself in a spectacularly stupid way.”

Hijikata stares at him as if _he’s_ the one being a complete moron. “Why the hell would I do that? You’d make my life a nightmare!”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t do the same to me if I did something just as _incredibly dumb,_ Hijikata-kun.”

“I wouldn’t! Unlike some people, I’m not a complete ass. I might give you crap about it for a bit, but then I’d drop it.”

He nods sagely. “Ah, so you’re saying that you’re not as good at it as Gin-san. This is a big step for you, Hijikata-kun. You’re finally getting those competitive impulses under control.”

“Like hell I’d want to be good at being an asshole! The fuck is wrong with you?!”

It really is too easy. The idiot had come here all calm and collected and draping himself all over the door all sexy-like, but five seconds of mild baiting, and he’s frothing at the mouth. Which is great and all, but it _did_ actually kind of suck when he wouldn’t tell Gintoki how he’d fucked his leg up.

“Trust goes both ways, Hijikata-kun,” he says with a lazy shrug, and okay, maybe that one hit the mark a little more than he’d expected, because Hijikata grits his teeth for a moment before appearing to come to a decision.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Fair enough. I’ll let you know what happened whenever I get injured, provided that you don’t mock me for any longer than twelve hours.”

Well. That was easy. “Make it twenty-four hours, and we have a deal.” He leers. “As a sweetener, I’ll tell you about the time Gin-san nearly ripped his dick off when he was doing a little naked housecleaning – he tripped, fell, and just _happened_ to fall dick-first into the vacuum cleaner, which was turned on at the time.”

Hijikata’s face moves through the whole spectrum of emotions, before he apparently settles on saying, “That story is clearly untrue. I know you don’t have a vacuum cleaner.”

“Not anymore, I don’t!” He opens his mouth to share the gory details, but Hijikata holds up a hand.

“Don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know. Twenty-four hours of mocking it is, in exchange for honesty about any injuries. That goes for you, too.”

Shit, they’re just chugging along! Who knew that serious relationship talks could be so productive? He rubs his hands together in excitement.

“Okay, my turn –”

“You just went!”

“Why didn’t you come visit me until now? Even Okita-kun sat here and regaled me with tales of his new grenades and how much fun they would be to explode you with.”

He has to admit that he _is_ still a bit hurt over this, though it’s mostly been buried under the giant honking pile of pure relief from everything else they’ve talked over. This whole ‘honesty’ thing has at least a few good points, he supposes.

Hijikata stares at him. “Where, exactly, do you think I’ve been all this time?”

He speaks slowly and clearly, so this idiot can understand him. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Hijikata-kun, but you’re in your uniform. I’m guessing that means you’ve been skylarking about at the taxpayer’s expense, as per usual.”

“For the love of – look.” Hijikata thrusts his arm out towards Gintoki. Yes, yes, it’s a very nice arm, uniform sleeve rolled up to the elbow, and okay, maybe now that he’s looking closer, there might just be a small amount of blood on it –

“I just got discharged from the hospital half an hour ago. After this I’m going to head back to barracks and have a bath.” He pulls his arm back, resting his hand just a bit too high on Gintoki’s thigh. “You’re not the only one who got knocked around.”

“… Oh.” Okay, he guesses that’s a reasonable explanation. Looks like a black uniform hides a multitude of sins – maybe he should look into a change of colour scheme himself. What was he thinking when he decided to go with white?! “So Gin-san’s healing kisses weren’t enough, then?”

“Idiot.” The word is punctuated with a light squeeze of the thigh, and it’s only now that it’s really starting to hit him that they’re back together – that he can have his surly Shinsengumi cake and eat it, too. Preferably covered in strawberry topping and whipped cream. God, he’s hungry.

Can’t get too horny right now, though – his butt won’t forgive him if he tries for any sort of repetitive movement.

“What the hell is going on with Okita-kun, anyway? Isn’t all of this technically his fault, since he lied to me about the whole yakuza thing?”

Hijikata shrugs, lighting a new cigarette. “He was supposed to be suspended for a week, so he went off to make propaganda for the Jouishishi.” Gintoki wishes that this were the kind of revelation that would spark some surprise within him, but really, there’s nothing. He guesses Zura must’ve got Sougo’s contact details from somewhere after all. “Apparently Katsura said something about how depicting – uh –”

“Your devastating butthole injury?”

“— _something_ like that would be demoralising for me, and he jumped at the chance.” Hijikata’s smile is sharp. “But it turned out that Katsura said he couldn’t pay him in yen, but that he _would_ pay him in exposure and he’d have something to put in his portfolio. Sounds like he’s also kind of a micromanaging dick.”

Gintoki nods. “Yeah, that’s Zura.”

“He made him do stuff like make the font a colour that doesn’t exist, move everything half a pixel to the left, that kind of thing, and copied in all of the Joui and the Shinsengumi on each email. Sougo quit in under a day, and Kondou-san reinstated him straight away, since he said he’d learnt his lesson.”

Gintoki’s never really had to think about it too hard, but he’s kind of glad that he’s never really had reason to get on Zura’s bad side. He doesn’t need him hiring some kind of evil graphic designer to whip up a picture of his butt or any other part of him in such a sorry state. 

“Anyway,” Hijikata continues. “Since I was here, I thought I’d just – you know.” 

He darts his eyes away furtively as he clears his throat, but it’s okay, Gin-san gets it. He doesn’t know what exactly Hijikata’s been thinking over these past few days with probably not a lot to distract him, but he can take a pretty good guess – probably because he’s been thinking more or less the same things.

“I ran into your landlady on the way,” Hijikata goes on after a moment’s silence. He looks a bit haunted, but it’s nothing in comparison to how Gintoki suddenly feels – Hijikata and Otose? Crap!!

“What did she say? What did she want?!” He makes a wild grab for Hijikata’s shoulder, but Hijikata pulls back deftly. “What kind of indecent proposals was she making?”

“Huh? Shut up, asshole.” Hijikata does a kind of confused half-shrug. “She just asked me some questions about liquor licensing laws – which I don’t actually know anything about – and then she said she’d make me an offer I couldn’t refuse, but it turned out that she was just trying to get me to incorporate jeggings into the Shinsengumi uniform. Those fucking jeggings – how many of those things did you even buy?!”

_Phew. So she was just trying to rip him off and get him to turn a blind eye to whatever illegal side businesses she’s running. She just wants to use him as a piece of meat in her games. That’s fine._

“Oh, and she said something about how she understands what it’s like to be in a relationship with a cop, given that she was married to one herself, and that she knows how important it is not to interfere in their business.” He narrows his eyes into a glare, aimed square at Gintoki’s face. “It was refreshing, talking to someone who understands these things. She doesn’t seem like the type to go rile up the yakuza for shits and giggles.”

_No, she eats the yakuza for breakfast! And she was hitting on you, you clueless idiot! She wants some of that hot cop action, and she doesn’t care if she has to climb over Gin-san’s corpse to get to it!_

“Hey! I apologised for that! I thought we’d moved on! No more interference from my end, I swear! You can go and let the yakuza stab you as much as you like, and Gin-san won’t lift a finger to intervene!”

“I’m touched.”

Crap, this is bad. He can only hope that Hijikata is oblivious enough to not pick up on it. It took Gintoki several years and a series of quasi-pornographic videos to get the moron into bed, after all; surely Otose won’t manage it just by being _nice?_

He almost laughs out loud. Pfft, like she’s capable of being nice.

“Oh, and then she invited me around next weekend, said it was high time we had that ‘welcome to the family’ meal, and that she was sorry she hadn’t made it clear the first time.” He pauses. “Maybe she really isn’t so scary, once you get to know her.”

Gintoki thinks his eyeballs may well pop out of his head if he’s not careful. _Shit! I refuse to lose my – my_ that _to that old hag! I’ll fistfight her for him, don’t think I won’t!_

And Hijikata – Hijikata is definitely laughing at him, and he’s pissed off, even as he can acknowledge that it’s a really good look. How can he not take this seriously? Does he not know that he’s at risk of becoming boytoy to the most terrifying old lady in Edo? And –

Wait, are those two in cahoots? Did they dream this up together just to make him crazy? Hijikata’s nowhere near enough of a sadist for that!

“Relax, it’s fine.” Hijikata blows smoke in his face, and okay, that’s one thing that he really hasn’t missed. “I’m coming around on Saturday evening for the meal, and then the old lady and her crew are heading off for a couple of days. Seems she won a trip for six people, so she’s taking the cat lady, the robot, the kids, and the scary gorilla sister. Sucks to be you, I guess, stuck there all by yourself.”

… Huh. Yeah, sucks to be him.

He tries to smother a smile, wondering which one of them is responsible for this. Gotta be the old lady – no way is Hijikata even remotely subtle enough.

“Oh, yeah? Where’s the trip to?”

Hijikata shrugs. “I think she said something about B’zneyland? I wasn’t really paying attention, since I wasn’t invited either. Such a shame too, since Kondou-san is making me take leave this weekend, and I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Wow, what a loser.”

“Yeah, I think you’re going to be in the same boat.”

“Terrible.”

The smile is definitely running free at this point, but Hijikata is also grinning like an idiot, so, whatever. His boner is also going to be running free if he doesn’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s finally going to get laid again – it feels like years! – and that would really just be inappropriate.

He clears his throat. “I think we’ve done a pretty good job here today, Hijikata-kun. Any other loose ends you’d like to get tied up while we’re on a roll? Anything you’ve forgotten to bring up over the past few chapters? You’ve got five minutes before the nurse comes in to stick a needle in my arse.”

Hijikata wrinkles his nose. “She should probably bathe you first. You fucking reek.”

“Such unenlightened assumptions, Hijikata-kun! It could be a comely gentleman nurse who’s coming here to heal Gin-san’s rear.” He sighs dramatically. “Anyway, there’s only one naughty nurse who I want to give me a sponge bath, and she turned me down. Something about it being beneath her dignity to put on a tiny skirt and prod at another man’s ballsack with a damp cloth for prurient purposes.”

He watches with interest as Hijikata’s face seems to undergo a series of spasms, his mouth twisting – when he eventually speaks, Gintoki’s surprised that he actually manages to get the words out, his jaw is clenched so tight. “Maybe the naughty nurse could be persuaded to provide some home care.”

His heart soars right up into his throat, but he manages to keep an indifferent expression. “Cool, maybe she could not look like she’s trying to pass a gallstone while she’s doing it.”

“Maybe she can leave you to stew in your own filth.”

“Maybe I’d like that kind of thing.”

He wouldn’t! He wants the sweet caress of a clean cloth on his ballsack!

“Four minutes,” Hijikata says. “Anything else you want to get off your disgustingly filthy chest?”

Kind of! He didn’t want to rush it like this, but on the other hand, at least Hijikata can’t yell at him too much if he’s on a time limit.

“Since we’re being honest and all… I kind of fucked Hasegawa one time.”

He’s suddenly incredibly aware of the ticking of the clock on the wall, but at least that means he’s aware that each second that passes is one second closer to Hijikata leaving the room and this conversation being over.

Hijikata’s mouth is hanging open, and Gintoki has the sudden urge to pop a ping-pong ball in it. But then the spell is broken – Hijikata laughs and shakes his head.

“Okay, you got me there. Good one. Not even you would get that desperate.” He glances at his phone. “Three minutes. What else have you got?”

_I tried! Gin-san totally tried! It still counts as honesty if the other person doesn’t believe you, right?_

He’s feeling a bit spiteful now. “I like sucking you off. You have better mouthfeel than Taka– ”

Hijikata’s doing a kind of full-face twitch, and it’s pretty hilarious, but Gintoki’s starting to think that maybe he actually won’t get laid on the weekend – or possibly ever – if he finishes this sentence, and that’s really not good at all.

“ – Uh, Taka-tin,” he finishes lamely.

Hijikata eventually manages to find his voice, but it’s flat as the tyres of Gintoki’s scooter. “You’ve been sucking off Taka-tin.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And how’s that been going for you?”

“Oh, fine. But like I said, the mouthfeel is lacking.”

“ _Stop…_ using that word.” The bastard levels a glare at him, and Gintoki doesn’t know whether to laugh or cower away from him. “Fine – we were on a break. I’ll allow it.”

_Shit! He’s going along with it! I’m a Taka-tin fucker now!_

Hijikata mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _Still better than that unemployed old geezer,_ and Gintoki would be offended, if not for the fact that it’s probably true.

“Two minutes! Gin-san’s turn.”

“This’ll be good.”

_Damn right, it’ll be good!_

“Oi, Hijikata.” He gives him his best sexy look. “Did you ever get around to going through that magazine I left you? See anything you want to try?”

This is the point at which he’s about to claim game, set, and match to Gin-san – there’s no way that Hijikata will be able to talk about that filthy thing without going bright pink and possibly shooting steam out of his ears – but, to Gintoki’s horror, he just nods.

“Yeah, a few things.”

He pulls the battered magazine out from under his vest – has he been carrying it around with him ever since he was in hospital that first time? He’s had two stays in O-Edo General in the close company of hardcore porn?! – and tosses it casually into Gintoki’s lap.

“There, I circled them for you, like you suggested.”

Gintoki flicks through the pages, and – there’s a _lot_.

No. No _way_.

“Even _this_ one?” Gintoki asks incredulously, opening the magazine to the incredibly lurid centrefold spread – and, yeah, that was _definitely_ a wince on Hijikata’s face! He _saw_ it! “Are you _sure_ about this, Hijikata-kun?”

“You think I can’t do it?” Hijikata asks after a moment, though, voice low and challenging, and _Ah,_ Gintoki thinks – that’s the over-competitive idiot he knows and… whatever else. “You think this shit scares me, asshole? Huh? Just what the hell do you take me for, you piece of –” 

One of the side-benefits of Hijikata getting worked up, Gintoki reflects, is that he tends to lean in and stick his face _riiiight_ up close to his while he yells – which is perfect, he thinks, because it makes it _really_ easy to reach up and grab his collar now, and pull him down into a kiss. Of course, Hijikata keeps trying to hurl abuse for a couple of moments, his words muffled against Gintoki’s lips, but at least he finally stops when Gintoki manages to get his tongue in his mouth, long and slow and languorous. 

He lets himself savour it – it wasn’t so long ago that he’d thought this was something he’d never have again, after all: the warm, soft slide of Hijikata’s mouth; the pressure of his hand resting on his chest; the flickering brush of his eyelashes against his cheek. 

“Don’t think this gets you off the hook,” Hijikata says, sounding just ever-so-slightly breathless when he eventually pulls back – but in the end, it doesn’t really matter what Hijikata says, Gintoki thinks as he wraps his fist in his collar and draws him in for another kiss – 

“Sakata-san, time for your injection.”

He pulls back reluctantly, letting his mouth linger a moment longer than is probably absolutely necessary.

The nurse sounds cute, but he can’t actually bring himself to look at her to check, because he’s too busy looking at the stupid bastard in front of him, with his stupid smile and his stupid face and his stupid everything.

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” Hijikata murmurs, and does he _want_ Gin-san to have a really awkward boner in front of the nurse?!

… Well, probably. Arsehole.

“See you, Hijikata-kun,” he says, and he watches as Hijikata’s arse disappears out the door, along with the rest of Hijikata.

“Please turn over onto your front, Sakata-san,” the nurse says, and he does so gratefully. He turns his head to the side as she jabs the needle into his butt, and directs a little wave to the patient in the next bed, who has been doing a fabulous job of studiously ignoring literally everything and everyone that has passed by his bed for the past hour.

… Man, it really sucks, having to share a room with other people. He’ll have to see if Hijikata can swing him a private room next time.

The nurse leaves him with a gentle admonition to get some rest and drink plenty of water, and he settles himself comfortably on his side. He’s still got at least three days of hospital left to him, he knows, and it doesn’t sound like he’s going to get many more visits. Shit. He’ll need something to get him through the next few lonely days here – and as he closes his eyes, he can still hear Hijikata’s voice drifting to him through his drunken haze: _Hey, idiot. I lo–_

Yeah. That’ll be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> Thanks again guys :D And a reminder that, uh, this is actually the third in a series, so if you’re interested, the first two stories can be found
> 
> [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17640257/chapters/41596253) (rated T)
> 
> and 
> 
> [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19186567/chapters/45608467) (rated E, please note)
> 
> and may clear up some questions :)
> 
> Thanks again <3333


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